


I Cried to Dream Again

by NoahAndTheRain



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Disordered Eating, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Optimistic Ending, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Universe Alteration, well.. happy ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-03 15:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoahAndTheRain/pseuds/NoahAndTheRain
Summary: With theDiscoveryback to its usual business and the crew settled into their work, Paul Stamets finds himself with the time to miss Hugh.  He comes up with a theory: he found Hugh in the network before - it's possible he could find him there again.  And Paul's right, mostly.  So he keeps returning to the network.  All it means is he gets to see Hugh again, so there can't be any harm in it, can there?Aligns with canon up until the last five minutes of the series - rather than setting a course for Vulcan, Saru gets promoted to captain and the ship runs as a science vessel under his command.  Trigger warnings in the tags - no graphic depictions of anything, and all tagged triggers are more mentioned/alluded to than anything else.The title is from William Shakespeare'sThe Tempest





	1. I Stand in a Desert with My Hands Outstretched, and You are Raining Down Upon Me

Paul lay on his back, his eyes closed.

In for seven.

Hold for four. 

Out for eleven. 

Hugh had told him, like he’d told so many others through their times of stress and their panic attacks and their white-coat jitters: breathing out for longer than you breathe in helps to calm you.  It slows your heartrate, it focuses your mind.  ‘Deep breaths’ is shitty advice that will only help you to hyperventilate. 

Okay so maybe Hugh didn’t phrase it quite like that to his patients, but the sentiment was the same. 

In for seven .

Hold for four. 

Out for eleven. 

The rest of the crew (or most of them) were now asleep, all tucked up in their rooms, dreaming about the things they could be.  Paul used to hate dreaming.  He used to hate sleeping generally.  Wouldn’t you if your real, awake life was so wonderful?  So exciting, so perfect?  His work was coming on in leaps and bounds, the most incredible discoveries were being made on an almost daily basis.  He had the beauty of every galaxy in the universe to behold every time he passed a window.  He had the love of his life by his side, smiling softly and rolling his eyes and polluting his soundwaves with that damned Kasseelian opera.  Not that it was a fairy-tale – there was the war.  And Hugh got angry when he was worried, and he got worried a lot because Paul was an idiot about personal safety and also stubborn as a mule.  But they were happy.  Holy fucking _shit_ , they were happy.  Happier than anyone had a right to be, given that they were literally at war. 

And then Hugh was gone, and Paul was lost, and dreaming became so much better. 

Paul was still in his uniform.  He wasn’t exactly about to go wandering about the ship in his pyjamas; as far as the crew were concerned Paul may be grieving, but he was handling it.  He _was_ handling it.  They might not understand this particular aspect of Paul’s handling it is all.  No, nobody needed to know about this, and if Paul was seen wandering the ship in his pyjamas then people would have questions. 

The medal was just too big to close one hand around, so instead, he had it clasped between his palms, solid and stable and it might have been enough to ground him.  But it was Hugh’s medal, and Paul was keeping it with him.  He wasn’t allowed to keep Hugh, that had been denied him, but no one could take this. 

So Paul lay on his back with his eyes closed to the dark, in his uniform, the medal tight in his hands.  Once he’d shut the door, he’d moved down the path a little so that he wouldn’t be visible if someone came in.  Not that anyone would.  It was one in the morning and he was the only person who came in here anyway.  But, well, he wanted to be safe.  Besides, the fungus grew all around him here.  It was dark and damp and perfect. 

In for seven. 

Out for eleven.

At first, the spores only traced the air around him.  It was almost like snow.  They brushed against the hairs on his hands and settled on his eyelashes.  It was almost like being snowed under. 

Have you ever remembered someone’s touch so clearly that you could feel it?  Their hands on your shoulders as solid as truth, as heavy as the day – muscle memory is a magical thing.  Your body knows what it’s been through, and it won’t hesitate to remind you.  The spores fell in the pattern of Hugh’s fingerprints. 

In. 

Out. 

Paul could feel fingers in his hair. 

He opened his eyes. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Same as always.” 

Hugh smiled, upside-down and only sort of, but oh- it was beautiful.  Paul didn’t move.  They could have been there for an hour; no one would have any idea.  Paul was transfixed, and Hugh wasn’t going anywhere this time.  The thing is, though, if you stare at someone for long enough, there are things you can’t just ignore. 

“Hugh…”

“Yes?”

“What’s wrong?”

Hugh let out an almost-laugh.  “What could be wrong?” 

“You’ve got that look in your eye.  My love-”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh I know, I know; I’ve got work in the morning.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

Paul sat up and swivelled round to face Hugh.  Hugh was kneeling, his hands still poised where they had been swirling through Paul’s hair, and his melancholy eyes were glued to his love.  Paul sighed, and smiled. 

“I don’t care.” 

But as Paul beamed, the last traces of happiness left Hugh’s face.  “You should.” 

“I know.”  Paul was nonchalant as ever, and if this was real life Hugh would be despairing.  But this wasn’t real life.  Hugh’s face remained stoic, deep-rooted in grief.  Paul knew this look; the slight knit of the brow and narrowing of the eyes, and the silence.  Hugh’s lips were lined with everything he wanted to say, but wouldn’t, because it didn’t matter if Paul had decided not to listen.  Paul knew everything he wasn’t going to say anyway. 

“Don’t pity me, my love,” he said, still with a smile dancing around his lips, gleaming in his eyes.  He brought a hand to Hugh’s face, traced a cheekbone with his thumb. 

“I’m not really here.” 

“Neither am I.”  Paul jutted his chin out slightly, like this was a wining argument.  “I think that’s called compromise.” 

“Paul-”

But Paul pressed his lips against Hugh’s open mouth, and any points he might have made melted away.  They always did.  After a moment, Hugh brought a hand back up to run through Paul’s hair.

And then Paul pulled away, just for a second:

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It had become a sort of habit at this point.  It had occurred to Paul one day, whilst he was flicking through some article about fungus and absorbing absolutely nothing from it, that he was always closest to Hugh these days when he was with the spores.  He’d found Hugh in the network before.  In fact, Hugh had been intrinsically linked with it; its demise affected him.  He’d heard Hugh’s voice when he navigated the _Discovery_ back to their universe.

_Nothing in here is ever truly gone._

Hugh was in there.  So Paul took a chance, one night.  He couldn’t tell anyone else about this – they’d think he was crazy – and he couldn’t put himself in the spore chamber with the spores without going to black alert, but he’d had access to the network without actually being hooked up to the chamber.  He was just surrounded by the spores, and unconscious.  So Paul slipped into the cultivation bay, and allowed himself to fall asleep amongst the fluttering lights. 

He hadn’t expected it to work, in all honesty.  He expected to wake up with a bad back and be even more tired than usual all day.  But when Paul opened his eyes, feeling like he’d only just closed them, Hugh was there.  Hugh was sat in his V-neck jumper and jeans just a few feet away from where Paul lay.  And when he saw his dear doctor, Paul’s throat dried up. 

“What are you doing here?” Hugh had said, almost chiding him, though Paul could see the joy dancing in his eyes. 

“I came to find you.” 

They had smiled, and they had entwined themselves in each other, and they had lain on their backs and gazed at the floating spores like they were stars, as if they might find constellations if the damned things would just stop moving for long enough. 

He hadn’t stayed long.  Hugh convinced him to go back to bed – he needed to get some decent rest before work.  But Paul had come back the next night, and stayed a little longer.  And then the next night, and he stayed longer still. 

Some of the others noticed Paul was looking more tired than usual.  Burnham gave him small smiles and understanding silence when they worked together.  Tilly said nothing to Stamets himself, but he heard her ask Burnham if there was anything they should do, or could do, to help him.  He’d smiled to himself at that.  He had everything he needed; the others had no need to fret.  Burnham had said he’d be okay, that she’d be more worried if he wasn’t having trouble sleeping.  At that, Paul almost laughed.  Not that she could know, but he was having no trouble at all.  He’d be out like a light in five minutes or fewer these days.

It wasn’t quite like when he was trapped in the network.  This was less like an alternate reality, more like a lucid dream.  Even Hugh was different – here, he was always quieter, slower, like when he’d unwillingly drag himself from their bed to get some food after a particularly long day.  He’d practically fall asleep in Paul’s arms when they curled up together on the stiff metal pathway.  But even when both of them were laced with lethargy, they’d spend what must have been hours walking around the room, admiring the spores and the light in each other’s eyes.  The second time he’d slipped into this state, Paul had suggested they go back to their old room.  Hugh had smiled at the thought, but explained that they couldn’t leave the spores.  They were not quite in the network this time.  Rather, the network had made a space for them, their own little bubble of reality, and so they had to stay.  And stay they did.  Brushing lips against hands and cheeks and necks, lying together quiet and content, laughing like streams at nothing in particular.  They had each other in this space.  Who could ask for more?

“Tell me about your day,” Hugh murmured dozily.  He was nestled against Paul’s chest, and Paul had his arms around him.  The spores flitted about the room. 

“Horrible as usual,” Paul said with a smile.  “Got up, did my work, went back to our room.  It’s so empty now.  Your family asked for some of your personal effects, they picked them up after the ceremony.  I kept what I could.”

Hugh sighed slightly, his finger running small circles on Paul’s chest.  “So you’ve said.”

“It feels wrong in there.”  Paul’s gaze followed one of the gleaming spores as it danced erratically above them. 

“You’ve said that, too.” 

“Oh I’m so sorry” – Paul tore his eyes from the spore to the top of Hugh’s head – “am I boring you?” 

Hugh laughed, and Paul couldn’t keep the smile from his lips at the sound.  “Not what I meant.” 

“I know,” Paul replied.  “Come here.” 

“I’m already pretty close to you, Paul,” Hugh said, soft laughter still ringing in his voice. 

Paul rolled his eyes.  “No.  _Come here._ ” 

Hugh pushed himself up and turned his head to face his love.  “ _Oh_ ,” he breathed, and closed the gap between them. 

After a second, Paul pulled back just a fraction of an inch.  “You know, it’s much harder to kiss you properly when you keep grinning.” 

“But you’re here,” Hugh said, that gorgeous grin still fixed on his face. 

Paul laughed, and kissed his love again.  He was mostly kissing Hugh’s teeth, of course, but he didn’t care.  Who could care?  He was here. 

And then there was a distant buzzing.  Hugh pulled back. 

“No, no, no-” Paul stammered, following Hugh as he sat up. 

“That’s your alarm, Paul,” Hugh said.  The grin had been wiped from his face. 

“No, it’s not.  Maybe there’s a fire and it’s just the fire alarm and we can stay here.”  He kissed Hugh again, resting a hand at the back of his neck.  Hugh returned the kiss, but broke off after barely a moment. 

“Paul.  You have to wake up now.” 

Paul rested his forehead against Hugh’s and sighed. 

“No pouting now,” Hugh said, the ghost of the grin fluttering over his lips again. 

“Okay, okay,” Paul grumbled.  “I’ll see you later.” 

Hugh looked his love in the eye.  “You really shouldn’t keep coming back here.” 

“Yeah, I don’t care.”  And before Hugh could respond, Paul had kissed him again.  It was a brief moment and over far too soon, but the alarm was really getting quite piercing now, and with their lips still pressed together, Paul woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: throwing in a shoutout to the most amazing, wonderful, stunning [@pumpkino](http://pumpkino.tumblr.com) for making **[this amazing art](https://pumpkino.tumblr.com/post/172106715553/i-find-myself-again-not-being-able-to-express-how)**!! I'm so in love with it! thank you so much bab - you're the best
> 
> this chapter title is from _The Price of Salt_ by Patricia Highsmith


	2. Does Half My Heart Lie Buried There?

Sylvia Tilly moistened her lips, her eyes flicking over her work station to where Stamets was sitting, bleary eyed and drooping, poking at some spore samples.  Something wasn’t right.  There had been a sort of grace period after Hugh’s death where Paul didn’t really grieve.  What with needing to save all the life in the multiverse, navigate back to their own universe, and win the war once they were back, it’s not like he really had time.  But the ship was back to its original function – everyone was going about their work; conducting their experiments and making their discoveries.  And now, though Paul did not express much in the way of it, the fact of his grief had come to the surface.  The bags under his eyes got darker.  His step was heavier, though he was thinner.  A sort of weariness clung to him along with the shirt on his back.  That came, Tilly supposed, with having the time to think about missing Hugh.  She herself hadn’t really thought about it until the ceremony, what with all that had been going on.  She’d thought about Hugh, of course, when the medical officers came in after the first attempt at reviving Paul had failed, and when they made that last jump, and in a million other tiny moments.  But she hadn’t really thought about what his absence meant.  Then at the ceremony, when everything had calmed down and she was standing quietly, listening to Michael’s speech, she looked across to where Paul stood holding Hugh’s medal.  And it hit her.  Like a hand pressing against her chest, there was this sudden weight.  Hugh should have been there himself, should have been by Paul’s side, but he was gone.  He was a good man, but he was gone.  And that weight, that hefty melancholy, that could only be the smallest fraction of Paul’s pain.  It was little wonder, then, that he looked like he was deteriorating in front of her eyes.  Stamets wasn’t one to ask for help.  But he needed it.   And just because he wasn’t going to ask didn’t mean Sylvia shouldn’t give it.

She took a breath, picked up a PADD, and crossed to Paul. 

“I just realised we never showed you the tardigrade brain scans in comparison to your own,” she said, her grip on the PADD just a little too tight.  “Whilst you were in your coma, I mean.  We analysed what we could, of course, but you’re the expert.  I thought you might like to take a look.” 

Paul was silent for a moment, perfectly still as he gazed at Sylvia.  “Thank you, ensign,” he said, and he sounded like he’d swallowed cotton wool.  He flicked the data onto his own workstation, but continued looking over the samples he’d extracted. 

There was another pause, heavier than the simple concentrated-work-quiet the engine room was used to.  Then Tilly spoke so suddenly she took herself by surprise.  “Are you doing alright?”

Paul looked up again, and blinked.  “Sorry?”

Sylvia swallowed thickly.  She attempted a smile, but Paul remained stoic.  “Are you doing alright?” she said again, slower this time.  “Sir?”

“I thank you for your concern, Tilly.  You’re very kind.”  He took a breath.  “Yes.  I’m fine.” 

Tilly nodded, though her forehead was still creased, and she was biting the inside of her lip to try to stop herself saying anything else.  Michael had told her before: give Stamets space to grieve his way.  It was good that he was working, and talking to them, and talking about Hugh.  He could mention Hugh’s name without breaking down – that really was something.  If he needed their help, Paul would come to them. 

“You’re not though, are you?” Sylvia said, and she could practically see Michael rolling her eyes at her from the bridge.  “You’re not sleeping properly.  And you’re not eating properly.  I mean, look at you.” 

“Tilly,” Stamets cut in, eyebrows raised. 

“Sorry, sir, but… well, you can’t be fine, can you?  And it’s okay-”

Paul turned to the ensign, his expression stern.  “We’re at work, Tilly.” 

“I- I know.  But if you want to talk about anything outside of work, you can.  Please do.”  She let out a breath, dumping anything else she had to say silently with it. 

The dust settled.  “Okay,” Paul said quietly. 

Tilly perked up again, her eyes gleaming.  “Okay?”

“Thank you for the data.”  Paul turned back to his spores, and Tilly knew that was the end of the conversation.  All in all, it had gone better than she’d hoped.  She puffed out a breath, and wandered back to her own station.

* * *

 

Life aboard the ship was persistently trickling on.  Paul would go to work and he’d go back to his quarters and he’d interact with his colleagues, and it was all very exhausting.  His nightly visits with Hugh, whilst robbing him of proper sleep, were the reprieve that kept him going to the end of the day.  That wasn’t to say the days didn’t seem to stretch for far longer than they had done before.  And that wasn’t to say that the days were easy to survive. 

Paul was just putting a cylinder back in the wall having replaced a sample, vaguely aware of a buzzing at the back of his brain, when Tilly popped up at his shoulder again.  He sighed slightly.  “Yes?” 

“Michael and I are meeting in the mess hall for dinner now,” she said, her eyes flicking around Paul’s face, never meeting his gaze.  “Would you like to join us?” 

“No, thank you, Tilly,” Paul replied, and he started to move past her. 

“You sure?” Sylvia called after him.  Paul continued walking towards the door. 

“I’m sure.” 

He didn’t see the concern etched over Sylvia’s face as he moved out into the hallway.  He was being honest though: he did not want to join them for dinner.  He did not want to face the crowd of the mess hall, did not want to note the pity in people’s eyes, did not want to spend another moment in any sort of company. 

And he did not want to eat. 

Hugh used to come up behind him when he was standing, looking out of the windows in their room, and slip his arms around his waist.  He’d pull up Paul’s shirt to place his hands against Paul’s stomach.  “You’re so soft,” he’d breathe into Paul’s ear, his contentment plain in his voice.  Sometimes he’d dig his fingers in, just slightly, and Paul would become very aware of every inch of fat on is body, but equally aware of how much Hugh loved it all. 

A lot of the time, when things got difficult, Paul would eat.  And then later, he’d hate himself for it.  He’d pinch his stomach and his arms and he’d stand in front of his mirror and sigh like he’d ruined everything.  He just knew he wanted to put a stop to it – the how was not important – but for the longest time he didn’t do anything.  But then, when he was around twenty, there was a shift in how Paul reacted to his stress: he started counting.  Sometimes he would continue his previous pattern, it was true, but then he’d go for weeks with a running total of calories in his head.  It never developed into anything serious – Paul knew he was lucky in that respect – but still, at the back of his mind, every mouthful had a number.  And sometimes, still, when things got stressful, he’d pinch his stomach like a tic and count everything on his plate. 

But then there was Hugh.  Hugh, who would squeeze his stomach with utter joy at what he found there.  Hugh, who would feed him chocolates when he got especially grouchy.  Hugh, who knew when he’d started counting, and never let it slide. 

“That’s one, two, three… four brain cells there, Paul,” he’d say, tapping gently against Paul’s head with each count.  “Well done!  You’re an idiot.” 

And Paul would sigh, and gaze down at his food. 

Hugh would drop his hand down then and squeeze Paul’s arm.  “You are beautiful, Paul,” he’d say, totally serious now.  “You are perfect exactly as you are.” 

Paul never felt perfect.  But there was Hugh, and Paul was somehow perfect to him, and he wanted to stay that way.  So he’d push the numbers to the farthest reaches of his mind and drown them out with listening to Hugh speaking, and he’d get on with the meal. 

As it was now, Paul couldn’t bear to eat alone.  And he couldn’t bear to eat in front of anyone else.   

The knot in his stomach had faded – it always did after a few days – but as Paul walked down the quiet hallway, the buzzing in his brain became louder.  He stopped for a moment and shook his head.  Bad idea: the cloudiness increased.  Paul blinked, looking down the hallway, but the hallway was barely visible with the blackness blotting over his vision.  Then everything started spinning, the whole ship tipping, teetering on the edge of some great, dark chasm, threatening to send the whole crew spilling out into the vacuum.

The next thing he knew, Paul was blinking open his eyes.  The lights in these hallways were too bright, really.  He squinted, and pushed himself up to sit on the floor.  That’s when he realised someone was talking to him. 

“Stamets?”  Lieutenant Joann Owosekun was on one knee next to him, a hand outstretched but not making contact. 

“Owosekun,” Paul said, and his voice was rasping somewhat in his throat.  “You… You haven’t called the sickbay have you?” 

“No, I was about to-”

“Don’t.  I’m okay.” 

Owosekun looked unconvinced – which was understandable, given the circumstances.  “You just collapsed,” she said, her voice flat.  “I just watched you collapse in the middle of the hallway.” 

“I realise that, but there’s nothing to be concerned about.”  Paul got to his feet, but his world immediately started tipping again and he had to steady himself against the wall. 

Owosekun rose, still with a hand reaching out to him, concern etched over her face.  “Are you ill?” 

“No.” 

“Have you eaten much?” 

Paul moistened his lips.  “I have eaten.” 

“Probably not enough,” Joann sighed.  “You know, it wouldn’t be a problem to call sickbay.” 

“I know,” Paul said.  “But there’s no need to get the medical officers involved: I’m fine.” 

Owosekun raised her eyebrows.  “With all due respect, I don’t think you are, Stamets.”

“I can’t go to sickbay,” Paul snapped.  He raised his eyes to his colleague, fully expecting to see a face wide with shock.  Instead, when he met her eyes, she gazed at him with pity.  With understanding. 

“Okay,” she said quietly.  “No sickbay.  But we need to get some water down you, and some food if you can.  Come on.” 

Paul’s brow creased.  “What?” 

“We’re going to the mess hall,” Owosekun said, like it was obvious.

“You don’t have to nanny me, Lieutenant.”

“I know,” Joann said with a slight smile.  “I just want to make sure you get to there without passing out again.” 

 _Shit_.

Paul sighed.  No, this was okay.  He could go back to his room once she’d gone – she would never sit with him as he ate; they’d barely exchanged two words before now.  This would be okay. 

“Go on then,” he said, once again steady on his feet. 

 

When they reached the mess hall, Paul fully expected the lieutenant to make her order and go to sit with her actual friends – Detmer and Rhys were already there, at a table across the room.  But when they reached the replicator and Paul said “After you,” the first thing Owosekun did was order him a glass of water. 

“Here you go,” she said, smiling as she held it out to him. 

He took it, and gingerly had a sip.  “Thanks,” he said. 

“I’m having a curry – what do you want?” 

Paul blinked at the lieutenant.  “What?”

“I’m thinking a dhansak.  What are you having?” 

“You know,” Paul said slowly, his eyes fixed on Joann, “I’m not really that hungry.  I think I’ll just head back to my quarters.” 

“Paul,” Joann said, and her voice was sharper than Paul had ever heard it before.  He raised his eyebrows.  He wasn’t sure she’d ever used his first name before, either.  “People don’t generally just black out for no reason.  Usually it’s dehydration or lack of food.  But if you genuinely don’t think it’s either of those things, then I’m sorry but I really think you should go to sickbay.  And if it is one of those things, but you just don’t feel like fixing it, then I get it – I really do – but you’ve gotta eat.  Either way, if you don’t do anything about it, it’ll only get worse.” 

Paul sighed.  How was it everyone on this ship suddenly knew, and was actively concerned about what was best for him?  More annoyingly, how was it everyone was always right?

“Alright, I’ll eat,” he said, and he could feel the acid rising in his chest at the thought.  He did his best to push it back down.

Owosekun smiled again, that soft smile that was lined with pity.  “Great.  So what are you having?” 

“I don’t know,” Paul said.  “Rice?  I really don’t want to eat a lot.” 

“Cool.”  Owosekun turned to the replicator.  “One vegetable dhansak, one naan, and – what sort of rice?” 

Paul shrugged. 

“You like eggs?” 

“I guess,” he said. 

“One egg fried rice,” she continued to the replicator.  Then, turning to Paul: “Egg fried rice was always my comfort food.” 

“ _One appetising Indian meal_ ” the computer chimed, opening the little door and revealing a tray of steaming food. 

Owosekun picked up the tray and made her way to one of the empty, smaller tables nearby. 

Paul followed, more because of a vague feeling that he should – that they were both invested in this meal now – than anything else.  “Don’t you want to sit with Detmer and Rhys?” he asked, his gaze flicking over to where the two other lieutenants sat, chatting over their bowls. 

“It’s alright,” Joann replied sitting down and placing Paul’s rice at the chair on the other side of the round table.  “I’m guessing you don’t feel like being around many other people right now?” 

Paul sat, somewhat reluctantly.  She had hit the nail on the head, he had to admit.  He gave a vague nod. 

“Cool.  So we can just eat here.”  She took her bowl of curry from the tray, leaving the naan bread in the middle of the table.  “Help yourself to that,” she added, flashing a smile. 

He most certainly would not, but it was a nice gesture.  Paul returned a half-hearted smile. 

One thing Paul was genuinely grateful for in this entire bizarre experience was that Joann didn’t seem to be eager to talk about what was going on with him.  She didn’t even ask for a conversation at all.  In fact, as she tucked into her meal, she pulled out her PADD. 

Paul’s mind flicked to quiet mornings, sitting beside Hugh as he dipped his toast into runny yolks, Paul checking up on the data he’d collected the night before, Hugh reading _Maurice_ or another such ancient book. 

And though his stomach was twisting, Paul picked up his fork, and started to eat. 

* * *

 

Michael would not open her eyes. 

She wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was late enough.  It felt like she’d been lying in the dark with her eyes closed for nearly an hour now, but that didn’t matter – she wouldn’t open her eyes.  If she opened her eyes, the whole falling asleep process would have to start all over again.  No.  She had the blankets pulled up to her chin, her breathing was slow and deep, and she would definitely fall asleep any second now. 

Across the room, Sylvia snorted and turned over in her sleep.  Michael looked over to her.

_Shit._

Not that it really actually made all that much difference.  It was one of those nights, it seemed.  Michael pushed herself to sitting, and swung her legs round the side of the bed.  Her toes curled backwards automatically on hitting the cold of the floor. 

A walk would probably help.  Most of the ship was on night-running, so the lights in the halls would be dimmed and the place would be quiet, everyone else tucked safely up in bed.  She would walk to the mess hall, get a camomile tea from the replicator there and read until she’d finished it, then walk back to the room.  And then, hopefully, get some sleep. 

Michael got to her feet and walked over to the draws on her side of the room.  The crew had been allowed some time to have a wander around the starbase before the ceremony after they’d landed, and in that time Sylvia had absolutely insisted on getting some more casual clothes for Michael’s downtime.  As lovely as it was to be officially a part of Starfleet again, Michael had to admit it was sort of nice to have some more clothes of her own that weren’t strictly regulation.  One of the purchases made that day had been a very soft dark green jumper that came down to Michael’s mid-thigh.  Sylvia had bought it whilst Michael was looking at jeans, and presented it to her after the ceremony.  She’d said it was for comfortable evenings.  She’d also said it would probably be good for when Michael went for her midnight walks.  And she was right, of course. 

Michael took the jumper from its usual place in her bottom drawer, and pulled it over her head.  She then picked _Alice in Wonderland_ up from the nightstand, and was about to head out of the room when:

“You going to be long?”  Sylvia’s voice was soaked in sleep, but her eyes were open and her face tilted up to look at Michael. 

“I hope not,” Michael replied. 

“Okay.  Have fun.”  Sylvia nestled down into her pillow again, and was asleep before the door had closed. 

The lights were indeed low in the corridor as Michael made her way to the mess hall.  The ship was quiet, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle of people going about their work.  So rounding a bend and almost colliding with another officer was the last thing Michael was expecting.  She stepped back, holding up an apologetic hand. 

“Sorry, Paul, I didn’t think I’d run into anyone.” 

“Michael.”  Paul’s face was frozen in alarm.  In fact, his whole body seemed rigid. 

Michael cocked her head slightly, narrowing her eyes.  “You alright there?” 

After a pause that was almost certainly too long, Paul spoke again.  “What are you doing here?” 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Michael replied.  “I was going to get some tea.” 

“Right.” 

Another pause. 

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” Michael tried, Paul’s frozen features sparking an ounce of nervousness in her. 

“No- no, no.  It’s fine.”  Paul finally began to unclench a little, holding out pacifying hands.  “Sorry I just… it’s fine.  Enjoy your tea.” 

“Thank you.” 

Paul flashed an unconvincing smile and began to move past Michael, but she swivelled round immediately.  “Paul?” 

He stopped, and turned back. 

“Do you want to join me?”  

Paul blinked.  “Sorry, what?” 

Michael swallowed.  “D- do you want to come?  With me?  To the mess hall?  We can talk about… things.” 

“You’re really bad at this,” Paul said. 

“Yes, yes I am.  Offer still stands.” 

“Thanks.  I’m gonna pass.” 

“Okay.”  And then, and this time it was easier: “But if you ever do want to… I’m up late a lot.” 

For the most part, Paul’s expression didn’t change, but Michael could have sworn there was a shift – maybe just a slight glimmer in his eye.  “Thank you,” he repeated, and this time it was genuine. 

Burnam gave a curt nod, which Stamets returned, and then they both went on their way. 

After a few paces, Michael turned back again, but Paul was already disappearing into the engine room. 

* * *

 

“People keep asking whether I’m okay,” Paul said.  He and Hugh were meandering through the mushrooms, their hands linked together. 

Hugh gazed over at his partner’s profile and silently contemplated how the light fell over his high cheekbones.  “Oh?”

“Mostly Tilly and Burnham,” Paul replied.  He brushed his free hand along one of the mushrooms as they ambled past and a cloud of spores rushed up to hang in the air above them. 

“What do you tell them?” asked Hugh, his eyes still fixed on his partner. 

Paul dragged his gaze from the fluttering spores.  “The truth,” he said simply.  “I’m fine.” 

“You know that’s… odd, right?”  Hugh’s brow creased as Paul looked back up to the spores.  “You shouldn’t really be fine.  I’m dead.” 

“But you’re not gone,” Paul smiled, gently squeezing Hugh’s hand. 

“I am though, Paul,” Hugh said, and his voice was soft as sparrow’s wings.  “I’m not here.  And neither are you.” 

Paul’s eyes snapped back to Hugh’s face.  “You’re here enough,” he said, a little louder than he’d intended. 

“It’s exhausting for both of us, coming here.” 

“You want to leave?” 

“That’s not what I said.” 

“I can’t let you go, Hugh.  Not again.  I can’t.” 

“Okay, okay,” Hugh hushed.  He took Paul’s other hand, tugging him in so they were face-to-face.  “I’m sorry.  I wish I could be with you.”

“So do I,” Paul said, his voice sullen.  “Or that I could be with you.” 

Hugh leaned in and rested his forehead against his love’s.  Flicking his eyes up to meet Paul’s, he was pleasantly surprised to find a joyous light was gleaming in them again.  But experience had taught Hugh it wasn’t always wise to trust that particular glint.  His eyes narrowed.  “What?” 

A smile broke over Paul’s face.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and there was definitely a mischievous note to his tone.  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” 

When Hugh didn’t move, Paul slipped closer and kissed him lightly, then carried on down the path. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your wonderful comments on the first chapter!! I hope you guys like this one too. 
> 
> I just wanted to give Ravenna a shoutout - @shroom-boi on tumblr and theowletqueen or nerdqueenenterprise (for star trek fics) here on AO3! A bunch of stuff in this chapter and later in the fic was based off her wonderful headcanons, you should definitely go check her out
> 
> This chapter title is from Frank Desprez's poem _Laska_


	3. If the Shower Will Make the Roses Bloom O Why Lament its Fall?

The next few days passed as days tend to do, with the crew of the _Discovery_ going about their business in much the way scientific research ships are supposed to when not at war.  There had been, Sylvia noticed however, a change in Stamets’ behaviour.  It was very slight, and probably went over the heads of those colleagues who did not know him as well as Sylvia liked to think she did.  He had been quieter generally since Hugh’s death, but suddenly there was a new focus to the way he went about things.  He had started pausing in the midst of his tasks, taking a moment to watch how the spores fluttered about the insides of the sample cylinders, and occasionally staring at Tilly so intently when she spoke to him that she started to feel quite uncomfortable.  The most disconcerting of the changes, however, was the brightness that had been sparked, by some unknown force, within him.  It was as if he had discovered some new purpose, some great reason for being that allowed him the strength to continue.  But whatever it was, Tilly had noted, it had not changed his attention to his physical health.  He still looked tired and drained, and never ventured near the mess hall.  And so, in spite of his attentiveness and his smiles and his apparent peace, a tiny voice in the back of Sylvia’s mind warned her that the root of this change, whatever it was, was perhaps not the cause for celebration it might appear to be.

One evening before dinner, Sylvia decided to log into the pool; Michael had said it’s always good to get some exercise before eating – it raises metabolism.  She had done her laps and was taking a moment to enjoy the solitude before returning to the busy hallways, having hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the pool, letting her feet dangle down into the water.  Her mind turned again to Paul and his curious behaviour over the past week.  The way he’d been conducting himself was unsettling, this she knew, but she couldn’t quite place her finger on why.  Earlier, he had been looking through the star charts and suddenly stopped taking data, instead gazing at the maps with a peculiar glimmer in his eye.  It was something like awe, but with a sort of melancholy to it.  She had seen that look before: it was the look of someone leaving.  The sort of gaze, warm with fondness and soft with regret, cast over a much-loved place or person or thing before leaving it forever.  But Paul spent half his career looking at star charts, why would he be gazing at them as though it was the last time he ever would?   

And then, as if Fate had been watching and decided to give Sylvia a hand, the man himself entered the room. 

On seeing Tilly sitting at the far end of the pool, Paul faltered.  “Oh.  Hello.” 

Sylvia tried a smile.  “Hey.” 

“I thought you’d be getting dinner,” he said, and he almost sounded affronted. 

“I was about to leave, actually,” Sylvia replied.  She looked at Paul in his trunks, unmoving.  Tension was riddled over his pasty white skin.  But in that moment it also struck Tilly that Paul really had lost quite a lot of weight in the month since Hugh’s death. 

“Have you had yours?” she asked, cocking her head to one side. 

“My what?”

“Dinner.” 

“Uh…”  Paul licked his lips.  “Not yet.” 

Sylvia pulled her legs up and got to her feet.  “Come with me then.” 

“I was about to go swimming, Tilly, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Paul said, eyebrows raised. 

“I did notice actually,” Sylvia replied as she walked around to his side of the room.  “I just thought… well I’d like to see you eat something.” 

Paul looked rather taken aback.  “What?  Tilly-”

“I’m not asking to stand over you constantly,” Sylvia said quickly.  “Just this one meal.” 

“Why?” 

“Because this is one meal I can make sure you eat.”

For a moment, the quiet was thick between them, the only noise their soft breaths and the lapping of the water against the sides of the pool.  Paul’s eyes were hard as he stared at his colleague, but Sylvia had her gaze fixed on the bridge of his nose and didn’t acknowledge any unpleasantness in his eye.  Finally, Paul relented. 

“Fine.” 

Sylvia flashed a grin.  It was a slightly nervous grin, true, but a grin all the same.  “Come on then,” she said brightly, leading the way to the door behind Paul. 

As she passed him, Sylvia didn’t see Paul roll his eyes.  But he followed, and that was the important thing.    

* * *

 

What the hell was with everyone on this ship trying to make him eat? 

He’d managed to avoid detection for the last few days since his unfortunate encounter with Owosekun.  This had been a relief: his hunger had become more important to him of late, and he wasn’t prepared to give it up now.  Previously, whilst the absence of Hugh made eating anything a sort of nightmare to Paul, he did manage to force some food down himself every couple of days.  Never much, and it was never pleasant, but it was enough to keep him going.  And now, as he shoved his towel back in the cupboard and Tilly ran hers over her hair, eating enough to keep him going was exactly what Paul feared most.

It had been a strange few days for Paul.  He had felt at once disconnected from his reality and newly engaged with it.  He noticed patterns in the how the air moved inside the cylinders from watching the spores.  He heard snatches of conversations across crowded rooms, like his mind was trying to absorb all that it could before it was too late.  He even took note of every one of Tilly’s stims – that he had seen.  This last day had been trickier.  He hadn’t drunk a thing since the previous evening, and combined with the lack of food, his mind often felt like it was struggling to keep its grip on consciousness.  But it kept it, and no one asked why Paul had taken a few moments to realise someone was talking to him, or process the data he’d been inspecting.  He was just distracted, they’d say, it was only natural.  Tomorrow, Hugh would have been dead a full month.  Things must be hard. 

But it was nearly the end of the day, and Paul thought he was in the clear.  He’d go for a swim, and then retire to his quarters.  He’d read some bits of the books Hugh had on his PADD.  He’d clean every inch of the room.  He’d make sure everything was organised so as to make things as easy as possible for Saru.  Then he’d get to work. 

He hadn’t accounted for things getting disrupted at the eleventh hour. But there she was, pulling her shoes on: the spanner in the works known as Sylvia Tilly. 

Paul sighed, his eyes fixed on the ensign as she stood up and went to the mirror. 

“I can never do anything with my hair when it’s damp,” she said, trying to inject some semblance of humour into her tone.  “If I tie it up it just looks ridiculous when I take it down.  But then, it looks ridiculous in its natural state anyway, huh?”  Through the already curling locks that had fallen over her face, Tilly’s gaze shifted to look at Paul’s reflection.  “Sometimes I actually think about cutting it all off!”  She laughed, but it was not genuine.  “Like yours.  Yours must be so easy to manage, right?” 

Paul said nothing as he pulled his shirt on. 

“Just a quick whoosh with the towel and you’re done.” 

Leaving his shirt unzipped, Paul got to his feet.  Immediately, his head started spinning, and blackness swirled across his vision.  He fell heavily back onto the bench.

“Paul?”  Tilly’s face was streaked with alarm. 

Paul looked up.  The blackness had receded, his mind was somewhat stiller. 

“Are you okay?” Sylvia asked. 

Paul remained silent for a moment.  And then, carefully, watching Tilly’s face in the mirror: “No.  Actually, I don’t feel well.” 

“Oh geez, Paul.”  Tilly’s brow was knit.  She brushed the hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.  “Do you want to go to sickbay?”

Because of course sickbay would come up.  “No,” he said again, firmly, but without panic.  “I think I’ll just head back to my quarters.” 

“What about food?” Tilly asked. 

“Well, I’m feeling kind of nauseous,” Paul explained, his eyes still trained on her face. 

“Have you eaten today?”  Sylvia tilted her head to one side, her gaze also intently fixed on Paul.  “Just because you worked through lunch, and I didn’t see you in the mess hall this morning.” 

Paul swallowed.  “I haven’t really been feeling well all day.” 

“Then you should probably go to sickbay.”

“I don’t need to go to sickbay,” Paul snapped.

Tilly sighed.  “Well the other possibility is you’re feeling sick because you haven’t eaten,” she suggested, and her voice had that annoying light quality that meant changing her mind would be about as easy as winning an argument with a Klingon. 

That wasn’t how that was supposed to go. 

“Look, Tilly-”

“Get your shoes on,” she said, turning away from the mirror and going back to her things.  “We’ll swing by our rooms on the way to the mess to drop our stuff.” 

Paul tried again: “Tilly, I really don’t-”

“You don’t have to have a lot,” she cut in.  She threw her towel in the laundry, and shouldered her bag.  “Just something.  And you can tell me what’s going on with you as well.” 

“Ensign.”  This time, there was warning in Paul’s voice. 

But Tilly, of course, ignored it.  “I mean it.  You keep these things pent up, you’ll… explode.  Or something.  Come on.” 

Conceding defeat once again, Paul shoved on his shoes. 

* * *

 

Michael poked at her rice with her fork.  Her head was pounding, and though she knew she ought to eat, her cramping gut fought against the idea.  She pushed the bowl away, and was just about to make her way back to her and Sylvia’s quarters when the ensign herself plonked down on the seat next to her.  She was tugging behind her a rather unwilling looking Paul. 

“Hi,” Sylvia beamed. 

“Um, hello,” Michael replied, her gaze flicking between the two officers. 

“Sit down, come on,” Sylvia said to Paul, almost rolling her eyes. 

Paul reluctantly placed his tray down on the table and sat.  He was clearly as interested in his meal – if you could call two pieces of dry toast a meal – as Michael was hers, but Sylvia being Sylvia, neither of them would be leaving the table until they’d eaten enough to satisfy her concern for them both.  Michael sighed, and pulled her bowl towards her again. 

“You alright, Michael?” Sylvia asked, fixing her with the exact same expression she’d just been directing at Paul. 

“Yeah,” Michael said, though in her mind she was already curling up in her bunk with a heat pad and an episode of some mind-numbing sitcom or other. 

Tilly must have picked up on the heaviness in her tone.  “What’s wrong, Michael?” 

“Sylvia-” Michael began, but Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Nope, we’re not doing this ‘nothing’ business today.  Paul’s going to talk to us-”

“He is?” Paul cut in, a mildly horrified expression managing to make itself known through the lethargy that presided over his features. 

“And you’re going to tell us what’s wrong too, Michael,” Sylvia continued, ignoring Paul’s interruption.  “If you never talk about it, it just festers and then… bad things happen.” 

Michael blinked blankly at Tilly.  “Cramps, Sylvia.  I’ve got cramps.”

“Oh.”  Sylvia stuck a hand into her pocket, and brought out a small blister pack.  “Here.” 

Michael held out her hand and Sylvia popped out two pills.  “Thanks,” she said with a slight smile, and washed them down with a sip of her water. 

“There now, Michael told us her thing,” Sylvia said, almost triumphantly, as she turned back to Paul.  “Your turn.”  She took a mouthful of potatoes and chewed expectantly. 

Paul just returned a dull stare, clearly also wishing he was back in his own quarters.  Michael almost smiled. 

“Alright, fine,” Sylvia sighed, shaking her head at Paul.  “At least eat your boring food.” 

Probably because it excused him from talking, Paul picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. 

“You haven’t eaten either,” Sylvia noted, raising her eyebrows again at Michael.  Michael did smile at that – the painkillers were already starting to take effect – and obliged to Sylvia’s mother hen wishes. 

For a moment, the three ate in silence, Sylvia munching away happily, Michael still mostly distracted by her pain, and Paul sullenly pushing crumbs around his plate.  It wasn’t to last though: Tilly had brought Stamets here for a reason, and she wouldn’t let up. 

“See, one mouthful doesn’t count as eating,” she began, fixing Paul with a pointed stare.  “And nor does the coffee you had for ‘breakfast’ this morning, and whatever else you haven’t really been eating.”

Paul looked up with such a glare that Michael found herself glad she wasn’t on the receiving end of it.  But Tilly seemed unfazed.

“And honestly,” she said, flicking her eyes down to Paul’s plate, “I don’t think dry toast counts as dinner really.” 

“I told you,” Paul sighed, “I don’t feel well.”

“Then you should go to sickbay,” Tilly said, and Michael could tell this was about the hundredth time she’d made this observation in the last half hour. 

Paul rolled his eyes.  “It’s nothing serious.” 

“If you can’t eat then-”

“It’s not that I can’t eat,” Paul interrupted.  “It’s that I don’t want to.  I feel sick, and I think eating will just make it worse.  Not every slight health issue requires immediate medical attention, Tilly; sometimes you just ride it out.” 

Sylvia’s gaze was fixed on Paul.  “I know,” she said quietly.  “But if there is something you can do about it, then why shouldn’t you?” 

Paul dropped his toast and rested his head in his hands.  “Because I don’t want to.”

Michael didn’t exactly agree with how Sylvia was going about this, but she had to admit she was right.  Paul looked, frankly, terrible.  And whilst it was true that not eating and having difficulty sleeping were common traits of people in mourning, that didn’t mean Paul had to suffer through them.  Misery loves company because, hopefully, that company can help it come to an end.  At least Tilly was trying. 

“We’ve all got to do things we don’t want to do, Paul,” Michael said.  “I know a lot of things come under that umbrella right now, and that just makes it harder, but the point remains.  And, assuming that you haven’t actually been sick – if you have then you really do need to go to sickbay – then dry toast isn’t going to make you feel worse.  And I know in times like these-”

“Times like what?” Paul asked, looking up and fixing his gaze on Burnham. 

Michael swallowed.  “Grief.” 

He shook his head.  “What do you know about my grief?”

“I lost my parents.” 

“I said _my_ grief, Burnham.  I’m not taking away from what you went through, but surely you can understand that losing a parent and losing a partner are quite different.” 

Michael moistened her lips.  “I lost Ash,” she said, her voice firm.  “He turned into a different person and tried to kill me.  He did kill Hugh.  And when he came back, he wasn’t the same man.  I know he wasn’t in my life as long as Hugh was in yours, I know it’s not the same, but I loved him and he was taken away from me.  We’ve all lost people, Paul, and it doesn’t have to be the same.  Loss is loss, grief is grief.  We can help you.” 

“Okay, okay.  I’m sorry.”  Paul sighed, his eyes flicking back down to his plate for a moment.  When he looked back up, his gaze moved from Michael to Sylvia, and there was an odd light in his eye that put Michael slightly on edge.  “But also,” he continued, and – was he? – he was almost smiling, “there are things about my loss in particular that really aren’t transferable.  And that’s why I don’t need this.” 

“Paul, come on.”

“Listen, it’s honestly not that bad.  I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t need it.  I…”  He let out a breath and set his jaw, like he was gearing up to say something.  He turned to Sylvia.  “Remember when I woke up, and you were going to tell me about Hugh?” 

Sylvia nodded.  “You already knew.” 

“Yeah.” 

Her brow furrowed.  “How _did_ you know?” 

And there is was – Paul actually smiled.  “It wasn’t just the other Stamets in the network,” he began, looking between the two girls.  “Hugh was there.  I spoke to him.  We talked about what happened.  And we got to say the things you always hate that you never got to say when someone dies.  So it’s really okay.  Not just that – he showed me that the network was in danger.  He told me how to wake up.  And what he said when we talked helped me get us back to this universe.  He’s the reason we’re all safe.  So I have him with me.  I have him with me in ways I can’t explain.  Yes, I miss him, but I’m really okay.  I just genuinely don’t feel well right now.” 

For a moment, the three were silent as Sylvia and Michael absorbed what Paul had just said. 

“Wow,” Sylvia finally said, blinking at Paul. 

“That’s pretty amazing,” Michael added, and she returned Paul’s soft smile. 

Paul just shrugged.  “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” asked Tilly. 

Paul’s face relapsed into his usual quiet annoyance.  “Because it’s personal.” 

“Oh.” 

There was silence for another moment, and then Paul spoke again. 

“Can I go now?” 

“No,” said Tilly, once more picking up her fork.  “Finish your toast.  And you eat your food too, Michael,” she added with a pointed nod at Michael’s bowl. 

Paul and Michael exchanged slightly exasperated glances, but started again to eat. 

* * *

 

Paul was alone in the cultivation bay.  Four sample cylinders stood behind him, clean and ready for use.  Around him, the spores filled the room with their peculiar light.  He took a breath, and turned to pick up one of the cylinders.

He worked methodically and quickly, opening each of the cylinders in turn and collecting spores in the usual method.  Once he’d sealed the final cylinder, which he had done in under five minutes, he turned back to look over his dear mushrooms.  They grew as they ever did, filling the room, stretching out over the pathways.  He looked over a particularly dense patch as if he could see through it – behind it, that was where he had lain for long nights of restless but blissful sleep.  And further along that same stretch of path, that was where Hugh had become so overwhelmed with love for Paul as he listened to him babble on about his work that he ‘couldn’t resist’ kissing him.  It had been the middle of a work day and Tilly had come into the cultivation bay a few moments later, when Hugh had his hands up Paul’s shirt.  They were not, at that point, behind one of the denser clumps, and Tilly had turned as red as her hair.  Hugh was always so professional.  This room was where Paul had had breakthroughs, made discoveries.  This room was where Paul would come to think sometimes, absently following the erratic path of a spore as he attempted to solve some infuriating work issue, or when Hugh had gone to the gym in a grump and Paul didn’t know how to fix whatever it was he’d done. 

This was his space.  Paul looked out over it once more, and smiled.  And then he picked up the cylinders and left. 

Manoeuvring the hallways quietly with four cylinders was harder than Paul had suspected it would be.  The sample cylinders were only meant to be carried one at a time, and they made a fair amount of noise clanking together as Paul made his way back to his quarters.  His main worry had been that he’d run into someone – he hadn’t had that problem before his unexpected meeting with Michael the other night, but it had put him on edge.  It was possible Michael herself would be around the next corner.  And now he had the added anxiety that the noise the cylinders were making would send some curious cadet out of their room to find out the source of the noise.  Walking around the ship at one in the morning was one thing; carrying four cylinders full of spores to your quarters at that hour was quite another.  Both would require explanation, but only the former could actually be satisfactorily explained. 

So he breathed a sigh of relief on reaching his room.  Slipping inside was easy enough, and as the door closed, Paul’s anxieties dissipated.  He put the cylinders down, and paused for a moment to take in the sight before him.  Hugh’s medal was sitting next to his own on the nightstand.  Hugh’s PADD – which was technically supposed to have been returned – was sitting on the table across the room, again next to his own.  He’d spent the evening cleaning, organising, ensuring everything was neat and tidy and set up to make things as easy as possible.  As he gazed at the fruits of his labours, Paul was satisfied.  He was also exhausted.  Which was fine: it wouldn’t be long now, and he could sleep. 

“Computer, seal the door completely,” Paul said.  There was a soft hiss behind him.  The inner doors of the ship were usually closed only as much as any door on a planet might be, ready for frequent use, but each of them had the ability to create an airtight, indestructible seal so any hull breach or other disaster would be contained.  Once a door had been completely sealed, only the captain could give the order to open the door.  Paul was inside now, and he wouldn’t be leaving. 

He took two of the cylinders to the farther end of the room, and placed one in each corner.  After doing so, Paul opened them.  The spores rushed silently up into the air, spiralling around their patch of the room.  He repeated the action with the other cylinders, so there was one in each corner of the room.  Having finished this task, Paul straightened up. 

“Lights,” he said.  The overhead lights turned off, but the room was still bright with the flickering of the spores and the twinkling of distant stars through the windows.  The spores had started to fill the space, and as Paul moved over to the bed, they flitted about him like so many curious bees looking for pollen.  Standing at the foot of the bed, Paul began to strip off his uniform.  He’d laid out his pyjamas earlier so this would be as easy as possible for his weary mind.  Paul folded each item as he took it off, and then once he was changed he wandered over to the draws on the other side of the room and placed the uniform inside. 

And that was it. 

Paul walked back over to the bed, tracing a finger over Hugh’s medal before lying down.  Exhaustion closing over his mind, he shut his eyes against the blinking lights of the spores.  He didn’t even need to think about his breathing: within a minute, he was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments so far! It's really great to hear what you guys think <3 
> 
> If you've been enjoying _I Cried to Dream Again_ then please consider donating to my **[ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)** \- any bit of cash would be really helpful at the moment. 
> 
> Hope you like the new chapter!
> 
> The title for this chapter is from the poem _Life_ by Charlotte Bronte


	4. Away, Away, for I Will Fly to Thee

“Well this is new.”

Paul was smiling – Paul was beaming – before he’d even opened his eyes.  His mind was still quite fuzzy, but considerably less than it had been when he’d settled back against the bedclothes mere moments ago.  He sat up, and there he was: Hugh stood at the door, looking around the spore-filled room. 

“You like it?” Paul asked, leaning back on his hands. 

Hugh took in the entire room in silence before turning his gaze to Paul.  “You turned our room into a spore chamber.” 

“Essentially, yeah.” 

“And how exactly,” Hugh continued, looking around the room once again, “do you plan on getting these spores back in the cylinders?” 

Paul’s gaze was fixed on Hugh.  “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said, quite truthfully. 

“It’ll take us until five just to get it done,” Hugh sighed. 

“Good thing I don’t have to leave at five then.” 

Hugh’s eyes snapped to Paul.  “What?” 

Paul was still beaming.  “I have a day off.  Two days off, actually.” 

Hugh blinked a few times.  “You plan on staying here for two days?” 

“I don’t have to go to work so…”  Paul gave a shrug.  “Yeah.” 

Shaking his head, Hugh turned to face his love and folded his arms across his chest.  “Two days is a long time, Paul.” 

“Worried you’ll get sick of me?” Paul asked, smirking.

“I’m worried you’ll get dehydrated,” Hugh said, his voice firm, his face set.  Paul pushed himself to his feet, and he was so utterly fixated on Hugh, so utterly joyous at his very presence that he didn’t even pause to appreciate the first time in three days that his head didn’t spin at his rising.  “I’m worried,” continued Hugh, “you’ll miss something important on the ship.  I’m worried you’re putting yourself in danger.” 

Paul reached Hugh, and placed his hands on his love’s arms.  “It’s just a couple of days, Hugh,” he said softly, and not even Hugh’s disparaging stare could wipe the smile from his lips.  “Come on, baby, two whole days.  Shouldn’t we enjoy them?” 

“That’s too long.” 

“Too long to be with me?” 

Hugh couldn’t help rolling his eyes at that.  “Too long for you to be away from the ship.”

Though clearly attempting to pout, Paul was still smiling that giddy, jubilant smile.  “What’s the point of days off if I can’t spend them with you?”

It was a rather beautiful smile. 

“One day?” Paul offered.

Hugh moistened his lips, and as Paul ran his hand down his arm and tugged at his wrist, he could feel himself relenting.  Paul pressed a kiss to Hugh’s hand, his eyes still fixed on Hugh’s face. 

“Hugh?” 

Hugh swallowed.  He was still dubious, it must be said, but Paul was here, and he was loving him, and how could he resist?  Hugh moved his hand from Paul’s lips to his chin, and tugged him forward, pressing a long, soft kiss against his mouth. 

“Okay,” he breathed, and like it was infectious, Paul’s smile spread over his own lips. 

* * *

 

Tilly wrinkled her nose.  “What’s wrong with orange juice again?”

“Sugar,” Michael said, eyebrows arched, almost smirking.  “You’d be better off having an actual orange.  But we’re not doing that, we’ve got slow-release carbohydrates and protein.  And green tea.”

“I know, I know.”  Tilly picked up her fork again and began to poke at her egg whites.  “It’s just a shame it tastes like dirt.”

“You get used to it-”

“Literal dirt.”  Sylvia pursed her lips, her red curls bobbing in their ponytail as she looked up at Michael. 

Michael sighed.  “I told you; you don’t have to follow the same path I did.  It’s your choice what you have for breakfast, Tilly, but you did ask for my advice.” 

“Just kidding,” Sylvia grinned, relapsing back to her usual cheerful self.  She took another sip of her green tea, and her face immediately contorted again.  “Actually no, no I’m not.  One second.”  Michael chuckled to herself as Sylvia practically vaulted the table to get to the replicator. 

She took another bite of her egg whites and granary toast.  To be fair to Sylvia, healthy eating could be rather bland. 

“Look!” Sylvia said with a grin as she sat down at her plate once more.  “I didn’t get juice!  Still healthy!” 

Michael gave a curt nod.  “Water is always a good choice.  You ought to keep a bottle to hand; people, generally, are chronically dehydrated.”

“Noted.”  Sylvia drank half the glass in one go, evidently still trying to flush the taste of green tea from her tongue.  “Hey, have you seen Paul this morning?” 

“Well, it’s his day off,” Michael said with a shrug.  “He’s probably sleeping in.” 

“He never used to like lie-ins.  Even on his down-time he’d be checking the spores.”

“Grief changes people.”  Burnham sat up a little straighter, swallowing her memories along with the tea.  “He’s actually handling things very well.  And if his composure means sleeping late on the days he can, then so be it.” 

“I suppose.” 

“Besides” – Michael took another bite of her toast – “he’s still checking on the spores on his down time.” 

Sylvia cocked her head to one side, eyes flicking up from her plate.  “He is?” 

“I think so.  That would make the most sense, anyway, from what I saw.” 

“What do you mean?”  Sylvia’s brow furrowed. 

“I saw him the other night.  You remember – I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Well, I saw Stamets heading into the engine room.”

A scrambled dollop of egg whites flopped from Sylvia’s fork.  She didn’t seem to notice.  “When was this?  The time, I mean.” 

“About one in the morning.”  Michael understood Sylvia’s concern.  Out of context, it seemed bizarre indeed.  But Michael knew grief and all its crazy demands.  Sometimes you’ve got to read _Alice in Wonderland_ for ten hours.  Sometimes you’ve got to surround yourself in spores at stupid-o’clock.  “I’m sure he’s alright, Tilly.  He’s working through things, and it helps to surround yourself in what you know.”

Sylvia hummed in lieu of response.  She wasn’t convinced, but Michael knew what she was talking about – she always did – so she was probably right. 

“Eat your eggs,” Michael ordered.  “Before they go cold.”

Flashing a smile, Sylvia did as she was told. 

* * *

 

Paul and Hugh were lying together on their bed.  Long since having changed into his own pyjamas, Hugh was draped across the sheets looking up at Paul, marvelling at how his eyes were shining in the dusty light of the spores and the starlight that filtered through the windows.  Paul was lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, gazing at his love with something akin to reverence. 

“What you thinking?” Hugh asked, lazily running a finger along Paul’s arm.

Paul grinned.  “And he’s smiling like he means it, and he’s stretched out on his back-”

Hugh laughed as Paul began to sing, his voice soft and bright as the flickering lights surrounding them. 

“And he’s telling me now that he loves me, for the fifth or the sixth time I can’t keep track.” 

“I do love you,” Hugh said gently, grinning up at Paul.  “So much.” 

“And I watch his eyes as they shine, run my fingers through his hair-” Paul stretched out a hand and caressed the top of Hugh’s head.  “Even though you don’t really have enough hair to do that, but still,” he said, before continuing with the song.  “And I touch his chest where his heart is” – he pressed his hand against Hugh’s chest, and he swore he could feel a gentle pulse within – “and I tell him I find save haven there.”

Hugh pushed himself up a little and pressed his lips against Paul’s.  It was a clumsy and lazy, both of them smiling too much to kiss properly.  As he pulled away again, Hugh said “Computer, play _Just Some Guy_.” 

As the base and drum kicked in, Paul pushed himself up and to his feet.  Hugh’s brow creased for a moment, but then Paul extended a hand.  “Dance with me?” he said, dopey grin still fixed on his lips. 

Hugh took Paul’s hand, and found himself pulled to his feet with such force he almost knocked Paul over as they came together.  On regaining his balance, Hugh kissed Paul, light presses all over his beaming face, as Paul slipped his hands around Hugh’s waist. 

And again, Paul sang, this time along to the song as it came blaring through the speakers in the walls.  “How did I get so lucky?  I didn’t even have to try.”  

“I don’t know,” Hugh sang back, putting just enough space between their faces so he could fully appreciate Paul’s expression.  “I’m nothing special.  I’m just some guy.” 

The pair of them swayed in a small circle around the space, Hugh’s arms wrapped around Paul’s shoulders, Paul pulling Hugh a little too close for their dancing to really warrant the name. 

“I really don’t know, you know,” Paul said, gazing deep into Hugh’s eyes. 

“Don’t know what?” Hugh asked. 

“How I got so lucky.” 

Hugh laughed again, just a little.  “Oh, I’m the lucky one, baby,” he said softly.  He reached a hand around and brushed a finger along the contours of Paul’s face, and through his hair. 

“But I’m a reckless maniac,” Paul reminded him, eyebrows raised.  “I believe I’ve caused you more stress than anything else.” 

“You have caused me a lot of stress,” Hugh agreed, idly winding white-blond locks around his fingers.  “But you have absolutely, definitely, caused me more love.”

“I don’t think that actually made sense.  Linguistically.” 

“Yeah, I don’t care.” 

“Alright, but really I don’t think- aha!”  Paul broke off as Hugh gave a sharp tug on the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“What was that, Stamets?” Hugh asked, his voice low.  There was a trace of a smirk on his lips, his eyes blazing. 

Paul locked eyes with his love.  He took a few heavy breaths, returning the fire of Hugh’s gaze.  “That’s totally not fair,” he sighed, tilting his head into Hugh’s hand. 

Hugh’s face broke out into a grin again as Paul turned and kissed his wrist. “Well you know all my spots,” he said. 

Paul looked up again, and this time he was the one smirking.  “Oh, you mean like” – he leaned forwards and brushed his lips against Hugh’s neck, just above his collarbone – “this one?” 

Hugh closed his eyes, his breathing suddenly a lot heavier than a moment ago.  “Yeah,” he sighed. 

Still smirking, Paul blew against the spot on Hugh’s neck.  Hugh let out a soft moan, his fingers tightening again around Paul’s hair. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Paul breathed.  He tugged Hugh closer, as if that were possible, and pressed the lightest of kisses to his neck. 

A sigh hot in his throat escaped Hugh as Paul kissed his way up to Hugh’s jaw.  Hugh pulled Paul’s head back up and kissed him on his perfect mouth, his tongue tracing Paul’s perfect lower lip.  Paul’s hands pressed into Hugh’s back – not so much as a breath could pass between them where they stood.  They were together.  They were truly together.  Hugh was his, and nothing could take him away, not ever, not anymore. 

At the feeling of Hugh’s teeth scraping against his lip, Paul moaned into Hugh’s mouth.  Hugh pulled his hands from Paul’s hair and moved them down his back, nimble fingers tugging up the fabric of Paul’s shirt.   

The kiss broke off only for an instant as Hugh pulled the shirt over Paul’s head, but he pulled Paul back in immediately, letting the shirt drop to the floor.  Paul started to fumble with the front of Hugh’s trousers, but Hugh pulled back a little again, his hands resting over the skin of Paul’s stomach. 

“Paul?” he said quietly.

Busy pressing kisses to Hugh’s jawline, Paul only hummed in response.

“Paul.”  His voice was firmer this time. 

Paul pulled back and met Hugh’s gaze.  Hugh’s brow was creased, just slightly, and any trace of his smile was gone.  His eyes flicked over Paul’s face, then down to his stomach. 

“What?” Paul asked, and his chest had started to tighten. 

“There’s less of you,” Hugh said.  His hands ran around to Paul’s back, and then settled on his waist.  Alarm scrawled across his face, Hugh took a step back so he could look at Paul properly.  Paul found himself wishing he’d kept his shirt on. 

“Only a little,” Paul said, attempting a shrug.

Hugh’s eyes were darting all over Paul’s body, but they kept falling on his bare stomach.  “Computer, stop the music.” 

The sudden quiet swallowed up the room.  Paul shifted under Hugh’s gaze.  “How did I not notice?” Hugh breathed.  He was asking himself, Paul knew, but he still tried to answer. 

“Because it’s not that much,” he said quietly. 

“Not that much?  Paul…”  Hugh let out a breath.  “When was the last time you ate?” 

“Does that really matter?” Paul asked, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“Yes,” Hugh replied, his eyes locking with Paul’s.  Paul looked away. 

“Yesterday, actually.  Tilly made me.”  

“What did you have?”

“Toast.” 

“And when did you eat before that?”  Paul rolled his eyes, but Hugh persisted.  “Tell me.”

“I had a stupid fucking bowl of rice four days ago.” 

The shock was plastered over Hugh’s face.  “Four days?” 

“Yeah.” And, since they were dredging up truths, Paul went on: “‘Cause I passed out in the hallway.” 

“You…”  Hugh’s voice failed him for a moment, but when he regained it, it was with a new-found volume.  “You _passed out_?” 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Paul replied, half-shouting.  He turned and picked up his shirt.

Hugh’s gaze trailed down Paul’s back, noting how his ribs had started poking out, where his soft rolls had melted away.  He sighed heavily.  “I mean… I did notice.  I noticed you were smaller.  I just didn’t realise how much smaller.” 

“It’s fine, Hugh.”  He still wasn’t looking at him.

“It is not fine.  It’s been a month, Paul, one month, and you…”  Hugh shook his head, and passed a hand over his hair.  “You look like a ghost.” 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Paul snapped, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Yeah, I’m dead, Paul, but that’s not the issue we’re focusing on right now.”

There was a fire ablaze in him once more as Paul whirled around.  “Yes, it is.” 

Hugh’s eyes widened a fraction.  Oh _shit_.  A breath escaped him, on which trailed all the horrified, shock-induced anger that had pulsed through Hugh’s weary frame.  His eyes sank shut.  “I’m dragging you with me.” 

Paul sighed – this wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.  “I wouldn’t say dragging.” 

Hugh shook his head, looking again at his love.  When he spoke, his voice was pinched.  “I’m letting this…  I’m causing this.” 

“No.”

“Yes.  I am.”  Hugh looked utterly devastated.  Shock was still rippling through him as he gazed at Paul, at how his once-snug shirt was hung loosely over his torso, how his trousers were slipping down his waist.  “This is wrong.”

Paul just shrugged.  “I disagree.” 

“You’ll get stuck here.” 

“So what if I do?” 

“So what if you do?  Shit, Paul.”

“Hugh-” 

“You should go.” 

There was a beat as Paul processed what had just been said.  “No, I shouldn’t.” 

“Yes, you should.  If this is the effect of you coming here-”

“This is not what’s caused this!” Paul yelled, and Hugh shrank back against the sudden outburst.  Paul took a shaky breath, unable to meet Hugh’s eye.  “Coming here is not… It’s – without you…  I can’t… It gets clogged in my throat…”  He sighed, trying to piece together some intelligible explanation of the roaring in his mind every time he tried to eat.  “I can’t face it.  Not without you.” 

Hugh let out a long sigh.  His face was the picture of exhaustion – his forehead lined, his mouth drawn down, and a sickly mixture of grief and guilt in his eyes.  “I’m so sorry.” 

“No,” Paul said, the word almost a growl, his gaze darting up to Hugh’s face.  “Don’t you dare be sorry.  This could never be your fault.” 

Hugh moistened his lips, but he knew anything else he could say on the matter would only further upset them both.  “You really should go, Paul.  You should wake up, and go eat something, and get on with your work-”

“I’ve got two days off, Hugh,” Paul replied, his eyes still fixed on his love with an intensity Hugh had seldom seen.  “I don’t need to leave, so I won’t.” 

“You can’t stay here forever.” 

“Why not?” 

“Why not?”  Hugh shook his head.  “You have duties on the ship, Paul.” 

“Not like I used to.” 

“What if I’m not really here?  What if this is just a waste of your time?” 

“How could it be a waste of my time if you’re here in any capacity?” 

“But what if I’m not here?  In any capacity?” 

Paul blinked at Hugh.  “What do you mean?” 

“What if I’m just a figment of your imagination?” 

“You’re not.”

“You seem sure.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re telling me to go.” 

For a moment, Hugh’s brow creased.  But it cleared again just as quickly.  “That could be your sense of duty talking.” 

“No, it’s not.  The ship doesn’t need me anymore.  Tilly has all the data, pretty much everything we know has been written up at least in note form, and I’m not making any more jumps.  I have no duty.” 

“Then why would I be telling you to go?” 

“Because you are my doctor.  And you care about me for some reason.  You always did put my health first.” 

“True,” Hugh said, exasperated, eyes flicking briefly to the floor before fixing on Paul’s face again.  “But then couldn’t it be your self-preservation telling you to get out and get healthy?” 

“I have no self-preservation.” 

Hugh let out a sardonic laugh.  “That’s true.” 

Stepping closer to Hugh again, Paul slipped a cold hand into his love’s and twined their fingers together.  “I know it’s you.” 

“If you stay in here you’ll die.” 

Paul didn’t move. 

“Dehydration, probably.  You sealed the door, and you have a few days off, so who’s to notice before it’s too late?  And with the amount you’ve been eating for the past month, malnutrition’s going to be making a dent too.” 

“There you go again, looking out for me.”  Paul trailed a hand up his dear doctor’s arm, shaking his head.  “Even when it makes no logical sense.” 

Hugh tilted his head, eyebrows raised.  “No logical sense?  Paul, you’re dying.” 

“So?” 

Hugh half scoffed, pulling back from his love.  With a shake of his head, he moved past Paul into the centre of the darkened bedroom.  “Seriously?”  He turned back, waiting for a response that was never going to come.  “So… you’ll be dead.”

The smallest of smiles flickered across Paul’s lips.  “That’s how I know it’s you.”  And then, before Hugh could interject: “Every fibre of my being wants to stay with you.  Every muscle, every nerve, every neurone; there is not a molecule in me that wants to leave you.  I have no duty, Hugh.  I have no reason to stay on that ship.  I have less than no self-preservation.  So, it’s you.”

Hugh opened his mouth, but no sound escaped him.

“Do you want me to leave?” 

“Paul…” Anything else he might have said got caught in Hugh’s throat.

Paul fixed Hugh with stony stare, though Hugh knew the misery in the back of his eyes and the crease in his brow.  “There is nothing for me there,” he said firmly.  “Less than nothing; there’s no you.  I could dedicate my life to finding the very edge of our universe, I could map the entire mycelial network and every reality that comes off it, and still there would be no you.  Alternate versions of you?  Maybe.  But they belong to every alternate version of me.  And this me… is without you.  I don’t need to save the network, or the crew, or life as we know it.  If I wake up, I will never find you again.  Not out there.”

Hugh moved back to Paul.  “I don’t want you to leave.”  His voice was low – barely above a whisper.  He put his hands on Paul’s shoulders and trailed a hand down his arm, clutching at his love’s fingers.  “But what kind of doctor would I be if I let you die?” 

Paul looked up and met Hugh’s eye.  “Believe me, my love; if I leave here I will not be living.” 

Hugh closed the gap between them, enveloping Paul in his arms.  His body felt so fragile, the skin of his back cold against the palms of Hugh’s hands.  Paul returned the embrace, burying his head in Hugh’s neck. 

“But this isn’t real – neither of us are really here,” Hugh croaked, his breath tickling the back of Paul’s neck. 

“I know.”  Paul pulled away just slightly to rest is forehead on Hugh’s shoulder.  “I know.  But if I stay long enough, the door will open, and we will be together.  For real.  Forever.”

For a moment, Paul’s words hung heavy in the air.  They were almost solid enough to be seen, close enough to press against Hugh’s mind and ring in his ears.  Hugh wet his lips.

“You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?” 

Paul’s breathing was steady.  “Yes.” 

“You never planned on leaving after a day.”

It wasn’t a question.  Paul swallowed thickly.  “No.” 

“There’s nothing I can say to change it?” 

“You can always change my mind if you want to.  If you want to.”  Paul’s voice was almost too quiet to discern.  “Do you want to?”

Hugh just looked ahead, his brow creased.  There was no possible response.

Paul’s grip around Hugh tightened a little, his forehead pressing into the crook of Hugh’s neck.  “You were never, ever, ever, ever, ever selfish in your life.  You’ve earned the right.” 

A moment that could have been an eternity passed.  Then Hugh turned his head and breathed into Paul’s ear: “Stay.” 

Paul lifted his head, a soft smile gracing his lips.  He nodded, just slightly.

“There is a moon,” Hugh began, his voice as soft as butterfly wings on Paul’s cheek, “near Starbase 46.  I heard they have the most esteemed Kasseelian opera house.” 

“I’ll find you there.” 

“You better,” Hugh said, and there was that beautiful note of laughter in his voice again, that beautiful twinkle in his eye.  “You promised me a date.”   

* * *

 

“Permission to come on the bridge?”  Tilly was shifting in the doorway, her eyes flicking between Saru and Burnham. 

Saru got to his feet and turned towards the door.  “Ensign Tilly,” he said, nodding her aboard. 

She stepped into the room.  “I’ve encountered a, um… concern in the engine room.” 

Michael had turned from her work station and was watching Sylvia, her body suddenly rigid, like she’d absorbed all the anxiety Sylvia had brought in with her. 

“Go on,” Saru said.  Michael took comfort in the notable absence of his ganglia. 

“Well, some of the spore samples needed replacing,” Tilly began, and she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, “so I removed the old cylinders, emptied them, and put them in for sterilisation.  But when I went to get clean cylinders from storage, there weren’t any there.” 

Michael’s brow furrowed. 

“There are always four cylinders that are not being used at any given point, and if they’re not being sterilised then they’re in the storage cupboard by the cultivation bay.” 

“Yes,” Michael said with a slight nod.

“But they weren’t there.”

“They definitely weren’t in sterilisation?” 

“No.” 

“Have you asked Lieutenant Stamets about this?” Saru asked

“Well that’s the actual thing.”  Sylvia scratched the back of her neck, apprehension still creasing her features.

“Wait, Tilly, what are you talking about?” 

“I went to ask Paul first, but I couldn’t find him, so I asked around.  Nobody’s seen Stamets for two days.  I went to his room, but he didn’t answer when I buzzed.  I couldn’t hear anything.  But, well, the computer said the door had been properly sealed, so he’s got to be in there.”

Michael’s eyes widened a fraction.  “He’s sealed himself in?”    

Saru had gone stiff.  “Ensign, are you saying Stamets is in danger?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t _know_.  But the last time anyone saw him, as far as I can tell, was at the end of his shift the day before yesterday.”

“When was the last time the spare cylinders were accounted for?” 

“There was one that had just finished a sterilisation cycle so I put it away, and the other three were in storage when I did.  That was… four days ago?  Yeah, four.  And since then no spore samples have needed replacement until today, and the spare cylinders were all clean, so there’s no reason for any to have been removed in the meantime.”

“You think Stammets could have taken them to his quarters?” 

“It’s possible.  It’s an explanation for where they are.” 

“Why would he take them?”  Michael was asking herself as much as the others. 

“I don’t know,” Sylvia said with a shrug.  “And I don’t know why Paul would lock himself in his room with them, probably filled with spores, but that’s what the evidence points to.  Either way, he hasn’t eaten for at least two days.”

“That in itself is a major concern,” Saru said, his voice sharp.

Michael’s brow was lined with thought.  “Four cylinders would hold a lot of spores.” 

“True.” 

“Is it possible he’s turned his quarters into a sort of spore chamber?” 

“Why would he do that?” 

Michael was nonplussed.  “I don’t know.”

“Whatever it is Lieutenant Commander Stamets has or has not done with these cylinders, I think our main concern is getting him out of that room and making sure he’s… alright.” 

Michael nodded.  “Agreed.” 

“Shall we?” 

“Now?” Sylvia asked, eyes wide as she looked between Saru and Michael.

“Yes,” Michael said.  “Now.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you so much for all your lovely comments! If you're enjoying my work and you feel like it, you can **[buy me a coffee through ko-fi here](http://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)**!! 
> 
> The song Paul sings and Hugh gets the computer to play is _Just Some Guy_ by Anthony Rapp (yeah I know). You can find ~~fairly terrible~~ concert recordings of it on YouTube, and the properly recorded version is available on Spotify on Rapp's album _Look Around_.
> 
> EDIT: punkino's been at it again with the incredible art which you can find **[right here](https://pumpkino.tumblr.com/post/172166307258/clericofshadows-holy-pants-of-rassilon-oh-would)**! I'm crying over it, won't you come join me?
> 
> This chapter title is a line from John Keats' _Ode to a Nightingale_


	5. If it be Thus to Dream, Still Let Me Sleep

“So when was the last time we know Stamets was seen?” 

“We had dinner with him,” Sylvia said, having to walk at nearly twice her normal speed to keep up with Saru’s long strides.  “I ran into him as I was leaving the pool and we got talking and I convinced him to come eat with me, and we met Michael in the mess.” 

“And that was two days ago?” Saru clarified. 

“Yes.” 

Saru was quiet for a moment as they moved swiftly through the winding hallways of the _Discovery_.  Eventually, he spoke again.  “You say his door was fully sealed?”

“That’s what the computer said, yes.” 

“Why would he seal the door?” Saru asked, speaking more to himself than either Sylvia or Michael. 

But Michael replied.  “Because he doesn’t want just anyone finding him.”

Saru’s gaze flicked across to her.  “What do you mean?”

“It’s unlikely that anyone would seek out Stamets on his days off – no one has any reason to.  It’s equally improbable that anyone would try to access his room without his permission.  So he wouldn’t be sealing the door to keep people out.” 

At that moment they rounded the final bend, and Michael, Syliva, and Saru stopped outside the door to Stamets’ quarters.  Michael gazed at the door for a long moment, and then turned to face Saru.  “I’m not certain,” she continued, and the apprehension was clear on her face, “but it’s possible Stamets sealed the door because he expected someone to come looking for him, and he wanted to make sure we knew we could be facing something serious.”

“Are you saying…?”  Saru trailed off. 

“You’re the only one who can open the door now.  Why would Stamets make sure we had to get the captain before we could see him?” 

Sylvia had been listening to Michael with growing panic, and now she was tugging so hard at the sleeve of her shirt she would surely rip it to shreds.  “No,” she breathed, her eyes wide.  “No.” 

Saru took a steadying breath, and turned to the door.  “Computer,” he said sharply, and as he did so the ganglia stretched out at the back of his head.  One hand reached up instinctively, his fingers tracing over the ganglia.  Michael and Sylvia exchanged terrified glances.  But still Saru pressed on.  “Computer, open this door.” 

-

“What are you doing?” 

Paul was staring at the door.  He’d been edging closer to it for almost an hour now.  Hugh had spent this time reading through the latest from medical journals, pleasantly aware of his partner’s presence.  His was still in his pyjamas – they both were – and was sitting on their bed with his legs propping up his PADD.  It was comfort like the end of the day, like there was nothing in the entire cosmos that mattered but this room.  There had literally been nothing in the cosmos for either of them but this room for a couple of days now, so of course nothing else did matter. 

“I think we can go.”  Paul was still staring at the door, his eyes flashing with optimistic uncertainty. 

Hugh raised his head so as to focus properly on Paul.  “What?” 

“The way is clear.  We can go.”

Hugh got to his feet.  “Paul… are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

“There’s still time.” 

There was a rumble in the back of Paul’s mind, like the beginnings of a headache.  “No, there isn’t.”

-

The blue light that greeted the officers as the door hissed open was almost beautiful.  Inside Paul’s quarters there was quiet, the spores milling about the room.  There was no other movement. 

Tentatively, Saru stepped inside.  Michael followed, and then Sylvia, who was still vehemently tugging at her sleeve. 

“Oh God,” Michael breathed. 

Even in the twilight, Paul’s skin looked blotched and dry.  His hands were weakly clasped together on his stomach, his eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow and fast.  But at least he was breathing. 

“Lights,” said Saru, and as the fluorescent lighting blinked on, Michael could see that Paul’s lips and nails were blue. 

“Tilly to sickbay,” Sylvia said, as Michael and Saru stared in horror at Paul.  Her voice was shaking.  “Request emergency medical assistance in Stamets’ quarters.” 

-

“What do you mean?” Hugh asked.  He pushed himself up from the bed and crossed to Paul, leaving his PADD behind. 

“I mean if we don’t go now, I don’t go.” 

Hugh’s gaze flicked from the door to Paul, an uneasy expression settling over his face.  “Then maybe that means we don’t go.” 

Paul’s eyes widened.  “What?” 

“Think about what it is you’re doing,” Hugh said quickly, raising a hand to Paul’s arm. 

“I’ve thought about it, Hugh,” Paul snapped, half angry.  “I’m making sure I don’t have to live without you.” 

“Paul-”

“You said stay.” 

Hugh swallowed.  “Maybe that was a mistake.”

-

Sylvia couldn’t get close to Stamets at this point; the doctors were all around him, taking his pulse, throwing jargon to each other.  “Come on,” she breathed, shifting from foot to foot with barely contained panic.  Michael’s eyes flicked from Paul to Sylvia as she silently chewed on her lower lip.  She slipped her hand into Sylvia’s and squeezed. 

“He’s severely dehydrated.” 

“Temperature at 103.2 degrees.” 

Saru stepped towards the bed.  “How long has he been unconscious?” 

“Unclear, captain.” 

“Is he stable enough to transport?” 

-

Paul grabbed Hugh’s hand and wrenched him towards the door. 

“Please, we have to go – now.” 

Hugh took a few steps, but faltered.  Paul turned back to face him.  “I know it’s horrible, I know what I’m doing, but I can’t go back now, Hugh.  I can’t.  Please, let’s just go.” 

“Paul.” 

“They’re coming.  They are coming, Hugh, please, come on-”

“Paul – the door.” 

Hugh’s eyes, wide with alarm, were fixed over Paul’s shoulder.  Paul turned.  The door was gone.  The room was dissolving, everything they shared melting into blackness.  They stood now suspended in the dark. 

“Hugh.  Hugh, what do we do?” 

His dear doctor took a moment to respond.  He wet his lips. “You know what you have to do.” 

“No.”

“Paul-”

“No!”

-

The neodextramine solution was injected into Paul's arm.

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?” Sylvia asked.  She was now bouncing on the balls of her feet again, and clenching her fists to keep herself from spinning.  Michael was stood right behind her, staring unblinkingly at the limp figure of Stamets on the bed.  “It’s not that serious, I mean?  He’s not going to die right now, is he?  He just needs fluids.”

The doctor looked briefly at Tilly, then returned to her screens.  “It’s a little more complex I’m afraid, ensign.” 

Saru shifted slightly, his eyes glued to the medical officer.  “Please explain.” 

“The scans show that some areas of his brain aren’t functioning as they should.  It’s like he was shutting down.  His frontal lobe is mostly unaffected, but everywhere else is proving almost unresponsive. 

“Can you do anything?” asked Saru, concern leaking through his usual curt tone.

“Like when he was in the network…”

The doctor sighed.  “There’s not much, I’m afraid.  Unfortunately the only doctor with any real experience in this area was Lieutenant Culber.” 

“Wait,” interjected Michael, turning her head to Tilly, brow furrowed.  “What did you say?”

All eyes were on Sylvia.  She coughed a little, and scratched the back of her neck.  “Like when he was in the network?  Most of his brain was essentially non-functional.” 

Saru faced Tilly, eyes narrowed.  “But last time you put him in the spore chamber; they helped return him to reality.  You saw his room.”

“Yes.  Yes, I know.”  Tilly sighed, her brow furrowed.  “But it’s so similar it has to be connected- Oh my God.”  Sylvia’s gaze snapped across to Michael. 

“What is it?” Saru asked, his eyes flicking between Tilly and Burnham.

“Well, recently he told us – Michael and me – how he actually got out of the network – you remember?”

Michael nodded.  “It wasn’t just what Tilly did,” she said, casting her eyes over each of the others.  “Though you certainly helped him, don’t underestimate that.”  Sylvia swallowed and flashed the briefest of smiles.  “But when he was in the network, he wasn’t alone.” 

“He did mention meeting his Terran counterpart,” Saru recalled.  “Though he suspected his alternate self would have left the network at the same moment he did.” 

“It wasn’t just his alternate self in there,” Sylvia said.  She locked her fingers together and took a steadying breath.  “He was with Hugh.” 

Saru blinked.  “What?” 

“He was… he was with Hugh.  Hugh was there.”  Sylvia swallowed, trying to pull her thoughts together.  “Stamets said he spoke to Cullber whilst in the network, and Culber explained why the network was in danger.  He also told us Culber helped him to wake up.”

“Oh, God,” Michael breathed, her eyes wide.  Sylvia looked to her again, her face lined with anxiety.

“Specialist Burnham?”  Saru looked between the two women, utterly at sea.  Michael broke off and moved to Paul. 

Sylvia was trying to remain still now, but she had started rubbing her knuckles with such force that she might dislocate a finger.  She turned back to her captain.  “He gained full consciousness within the network after I’d exposed him to the spores the second time.  The mushrooms allowed him full access to the network, so his brain didn’t have to devote all its energy into keeping the link open.  But that didn’t help him to wake up – he decided to do that so that he could save the network.  And with the help of Culber.” 

“So what you’re saying is that we need Culber to help him?” said Saru, a note of incredulity in his voice. 

“No.”  Michael’s voice was low.  She took Paul’s hand in her own, her eyes fixed on his face.  “We’re saying the network gave him access to Hugh.” 

For a moment, there was quiet.  The doctor, Saru, and Sylvia were all gazing across to the bed.  Then Tilly broke forward; she almost pushed her captain aside to reach the other side of the bed. 

“Stamets?”  She was standing up straight, her voice firm, but her mouth was tight and if it weren’t for how hard she’d clasped them behind her back, her hands would be shaking.  “I don’t know if you can hear me, sir, but you need to find your way out of there.  Okay?  Because it’s not real.  He’s not there, and neither are you.  Don’t get lost in there again.  Come on, wake up.” 

-

The rumbling in Paul’s mind was growing louder.

He seized Hugh’s face and kissed him – a clumsy movement that was all teeth and swollen lips and searing tears.  Hugh wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist, hands pressed hard against his back, pulling him tighter, closer, impossibly closer.  Paul’s hands were clasped at the back of Hugh’s head, urgency hot in his mouth.  They broke off for a breath Paul didn’t want to need, still held fast in each other’s arms. 

“Paul-”

“Don’t.”  It was louder than he’d meant it to be, a word that was half a sob.  “Don’t.  I don’t… I can’t.  Not again.” 

Hugh pulled a hand up to Paul’s face and wiped away a tear, his thumb tracing his cheekbone.  “I don’t want you to, Paul.” 

“Then we’ll stay here.” 

“It’s too late.” 

Paul was shaking so much his knees almost buckled beneath him.  But with Hugh’s arms around him he stayed on his feet. 

“I don’t want this to be the end,” Paul choked, his forehead pressed to Hugh’s. 

And Hugh’s jaw set.  He gazed at Paul with a fire in his eyes.  “Then I promise you now my love,” he said, “it won’t be."

“Hugh…”

“Paul-”

-

“Wake up!” 

Paul jerked, nearly smacking Tilly in the head as he found himself sitting up.  Sylvia moved back suddenly, a shocked smile breaking over her face.  But it faded as quickly as it had come. 

“No.  No, no, no…”  Paul looked around, eyes wide and wet.  His chest started heaving, the breath getting tangled in his throat.  “No!” 

“Paul?”  Sylvia reached out a slightly shaky hand. 

“No!”  Grief filled up the room as Paul collapsed back onto the bed, pressing his hands against his eyes.  The words had disintegrated into sobs, loud, juddering. 

Then Sylvia stepped forward.  She placed a hand tentatively on his shoulder, and then brushed her fingers through his hair.  When Paul made no sign of moving, she perched on the side of the bed and tugged, ever so gently, at his arm.  And Paul relented.  He buried his head in Sylvia’s shoulder, and she held him fast. 

“It’s okay, Paul,” she whispered, her hand moving slowly over his back as he shuddered in her arms.  “It’ll be okay.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your lovely comments over the past few days!! Please keep commenting, your words give me life.  
> This one was a bit shorter, as you can see, but the final chapter is like double the length of all the others so that makes up for it I think. 
> 
> If you like what you've read so far and have a few pennies you can spare, please **[support me through ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)**!!
> 
> I'm back at it with the Shakespeare for this chapter title from _Twelfth Night_


	6. Is Not a Real Hell Better than a Manufactured Heaven?

The following days were complicated to say the least.  There were things that had to be done, regulations that had to be followed.  But Saru was more lenient than perhaps was expected, and no decisions were made right away.  But there were rules that had to be set.  Paul was not allowed to leave sickbay.  Paul had to undergo a number of psychological evaluations.  Paul was to be injected with the neodextramine solution and attached to a drip full of some foggy liquid that Paul couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of.  Whatever it was, it was stuffed with calories.  And yes, Paul hated injections and needles and he honestly started to feel quite jittery when he thought about the IV in his arm, but it meant he didn’t have to eat, so he didn’t complain.  He just tried not to think about it. 

And that was, essentially, the way Paul went through the subsequent days.  He tried not to think about how close he had been to succeeding.  He tried not to think about breaking down in front of so many people.  He tried not to think about dancing with Hugh again (good God, he would give anything to dance with Hugh again-) and instead he looked at the ceiling of the sickbay and tried to keep his mind blank. 

The psych evals were the worst of it.  They weren’t exactly a new experience – they were part of the programme in Starfleet and he had had a couple before joining – and he’d never minded them, but now it was someone in a pristine medical uniform sitting by him and looking at him like he was something unspeakably fragile.  Like if she looked too hard he would break.  And she asked him about Hugh.  They – that big, unknown ‘they’ that was probably made up of the medical officers and Saru and whoever wrote that endless list of regulations – wanted objectivity so of course they decided the evals would be run by a woman who had never known him, by the woman who had replaced him.  She sat there in her white Starfleet uniform and she asked about Hugh.  Paul couldn’t bear to hear her say his name.  But she kept saying it.  And she didn’t picture him when she did.  She couldn’t hear his voice.  She couldn’t feel his touch.  She couldn’t see his smile.  But Paul did.  And he found himself wishing he could fill his drip with rye. 

But he got through them and he was left in peace most of the time. 

Bad news came like sunrise on every lonely planet: certain, regular, and surprisingly distant.  When Saru told him he was on mandatory sick leave until further notice, Paul felt nothing.  When Michael told him there were to be discussions about whether he could ever work with the spores again, Paul just blinked.  When Sylvia told him it would be possible he’d be leaving the ship at the next opportunity, Paul kept staring at the ceiling. 

And those were his days.  He’d sit on his bed and flick through his history books or some stupid celebrity gossip website and absorb absolutely no information.  He let the doctors take blood samples and track his weight.  He missed his work.  He missed his Hugh.  He tried not to think about it.

He wasn’t sure whether the nights were worse or not.  For the most part, they were quiet.  No one came by to get minor injuries checked out or pick up prescriptions.  Once or twice, someone did come in to get patched up – the lights would all go on and Paul would lie there and ignore the commotion.  And then they’d leave, and Paul would stare out into the dark.  Various machines and monitors glimmered and blinked.  Occasionally other patients would stay overnight, but no one Paul knew, and they all slept like they were in their own beds.  It didn’t take long for Paul to get the night-shift rotas down to a T: the shifts were staggered so everyone complained about not getting their preferred start or finish times; break hours were always from two to five, they would tag-team them; someone would check patient vitals at twelve, and at three, and then again at six.

Paul didn’t comment about how little he was sleeping, not even in the psych evals, but they knew.  He couldn’t talk about it.  The thing was, Paul didn’t know whether he was more afraid that he would dream of Hugh or that he wouldn’t.    Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t get any sleep; every forty-eight hours or so, Paul’s mind would slip into blackness, and he’d wake some undistinguishable time later, unrested and unrefreshed. 

They tried to get him to eat by himself on the third day.  Paul told them that he would prefer to be stabbed again.  They tried again on the fifth day.  Paul didn’t have the energy to argue.  Nor did he have the energy to eat.  They removed the soup from his tray table long after it had gone cold.  Sylvia actually tried on the sixth day, and she was convincing in the way only Sylvia can be and Paul ate some bread.  Later, in the dark, he sobbed until there was nothing left in him. 

But the next day he ate some fruit. 

The doctors talked about how progress being slow did nothing to detract from its being progress.  Paul remembered how Hugh used to say it, and he didn’t eat again for two days.  The drip stayed. 

Joann brought him some egg fried rice on the tenth day of being confined to sickbay and the only way to thank her was to eat it.  She didn’t stay long enough to see him eat, but someone would tell her.  She didn’t do it for the thanks, of course, she just did it because she could.  Because it would maybe help. 

After two weeks, Paul felt sick with missing his own bed.  Sylvia reminded him, in no uncertain terms, that he could only go back to his own bed if he actually started eating enough to have the drip removed.  So Paul made a little more off an effort, and every bite felt like it would choke him, sure, but he just wanted out of this room.  Sylvia was right, of course, and with the promise of careful monitoring, he was discharged.

On day eighteen, Paul curled up in his own bed again and, as the quiet closed around him, realised his mistake.  The total, silent emptiness of the space pressed down on all sides.  But surely it hadn’t been long since Hugh was sitting on their bed, waiting for Paul to join him.  Since they were lying together sharing sweet little kisses. 

But the bed was cold and as an unbridled, overwhelming shock of grief twisted through Paul’s chest, he found himself screaming, hurling one of the pillows across the room.  Nothing happened.  It didn’t hit anything precious.  It just landed, and sort of slid across the floor a bit, and then everything was still again. 

Because the thing was, nothing really changed.  In all of this, the ship kept going.  Hugh died, yes, he died along with a hundred thousand others because that’s what happens at war, and the battles kept going.  He was commemorated with a medal, and then everyone went about their day.  And whilst Paul was giving one-word answers about his past, the _Discovery_ was gliding through into the future.  The crew kept working.  The ship kept on going. 

Paul turned to collapse back down onto the mattress, but something caught his eye.  A blue smudge on the white sheets, almost luminescent.  He picked at it and a trace of the stuff got stuck under his fingernail.  Strange: Paul had assumed the sheets had been changed, that the entire room had been cleared of any trace of his adventure back into the network for fear some reminder would send him off again.  Curious, Paul lifted the other pillow.  A silent speck fluttered up with the rush of movement and then paused, seemingly suspended in the air, and blinked.

And suddenly Paul could almost feel Hugh sitting on the side of the bed, almost see his gentlest eyes, and his hand now would be squeezing his shoulder. 

But then, if Hugh was here, he would be saying that this, this pain, this was part of the healing.  It stings because it’s working.  That it will all be worth the hurting.  Hugh would be saying Paul could keep getting better.  And no, Paul didn’t sleep that night.  But the following day he decided, at long last, to head to the mess.

* * *

 

At lunchtime-ish, Paul found himself in the mess hall as some cadet from linguistics made her order to the replicator, gazing out at the milling crowd.  People sat around the tables; they ate their food, they laughed, they chatted about their work and their problems and their plans.  The lights buzzed.  The engines hummed.  The universe continued its infinity. 

All the noise, all the bustle and the fuss, swilled together in the still air.  It was like the white horses on waves.  It lapped against Paul’s toes, barely reaching him – but the tide was coming in. 

A year to the day after Hugh and Paul had stumbled into each other’s lives, they made their way back to the café in Alpha Centauri.  The café looked out over a beach, and they got coffee, and later ice cream, and they took a walk together in the evening as the families that had been enjoying the warmth wrapped their children in towels and made their ways home.  The sand there was translucent and the sea a rich blue-green, so as they sun set and the spray sparkled in the shingle, it felt like they were walking through a dream.  The air was warm still as they wandered, hands linked, both silently smiling at the thought that this could well be the rest of their lives.  Both happy, truly happy, with the fact.  And it wasn’t the silken sands, or the tourmaline sea; it was the man by their side.  Neither said that this was the end of their searching.  Neither asked for the rest of their love’s life.  There were no promises, no vows.  But there were soft kisses as the moons rose, and the waves swilled around their ankles. 

Now, in Alpha Centauri, the sun would be rising, and setting.  The sea would be kissing the shore.  The sun would be burning, and the worlds would be spinning, and the café would be serving hot lattes and vanilla ice cream. 

Back on Earth, someone was looking at the moon.  On Starbase 46, there was bound to be a baby crying.  There were so many people in this universe, so many souls, and they all kept on living.  Grass was growing, somewhere, and Paul’s mushrooms were growing too, and there was rain, still. 

People clattered their cutlery on their plates, they laughed like thunder, and they kept talking.  Talking, chattering, bustling, clattering, clamouring, hammering – the wave of white noise crashed against Paul’s ears, a barrage of stones rattling in conch shells.  Everyone was moving, and they were moving forward.  They continued.  Every cell in the universe kept living, and being renewed.  There was no empty station in the sickbay, but there was an empty space in Paul’s bed.  No one was stopping.  How could no one be stopping?  There was a gaping tear in the galaxy, a black hole inside the ship, and no one was paying any attention.  The waves were rising.  How was everyone just continuing without? 

He wanted to scream.  Wanted to shout _stop all the clocks_ to anyone who would listen – maybe somebody in all of this would realise that the universe was very, very wrong in how it continued without a hitch.  It shouldn’t do that.  Everyone was living.  Everyone else was living.  And Paul wanted to tell them all that he had died when Hugh died, but somehow there was an error and Paul’s body kept on going.  His heart kept on beating.  This was a mistake, surely?  He was still here, but Hugh wasn’t.  He wanted to ask why. 

Instead, salt water filled his mouth. 

“Excuse me?” 

The voice, hesitant yet firm, forced Paul’s mind into focus.  He turned.  An ensign blinked at him.  “Are you ordering?” 

Paul’s lungs were full of sand.  He tried to swallow but it felt too much like drowning.  

“Sir?” 

Bile mixed with the seawater in Paul’s throat, and finally one, piercing thought found its way out of the mist and spray:

_Get out._

He shook his head, and staggered away from the replicator.  In the moment he’d spent staring at the ensign, Paul had failed to notice the mess hall filling with water.  It was filling with water, and nobody was doing anything.  He tried to yell, tried to warn all those people just sitting around not noticing that the whole ship was sinking, but water rushed into his mouth again.  As it filled the room, it splattered his eyes, blurring, stinging – darkness clouded the edge of his already hazy vision.  The water sloshed against the walls and the room started spinning, ruining what remained of Paul’s equilibrium.  And they kept sinking.  Light shattered as it hit the water, sending splinters tearing through the swell.  For a moment, everything was crystal clear, bright as sunlight, but the murky corners started closing in. 

He couldn’t breathe.  He looked up towards where the light should be, up to where he should be able to break through the surface of the water, but there was no surface.  There was no air to be had.  The fluorescent lights that usually cast their clinical light over the crew were gone.  There was some sense of misty starlight filtering through the windows, but the mess hall lights had spluttered and died.  And the souls – the tidal wave of other life – had vanished along with it.  Paul just managed to make out the tables floating lazily in the gloom.  

Deeper and deeper the ship sank, deep enough now that light struggled to penetrate the tons of water pressing down on all sides.  An eel slipped past, and Paul turned, or tried to turn, but the weight of the water tugged at his limbs.  Seaweed had wrapped its slimy fingers around his ankles and his wrists and his neck, constricting, fixing him to the ocean floor.  If the pressure got any higher Paul’s eardrums would surely burst.  His brain had started screaming for air, his sand-filled lungs desperately heaving.  They forced him to suck in and salt water flooded his chest.  He spluttered, driving the water out, but he took another breath on reflex and his lungs filled up again.  The darkness pressed against his eyes.  The salt stung.  He had to find air. 

And then, in some miracle, he saw it: there was a door.  Paul blinked, trying to focus through the fog, but even in the blur he knew it was a door.   Behind it, there would be a confusing construction of passages and vertigo-inducing elevators and tight turns, and Paul’s mind started spinning again at the thought, but he managed to hold onto the thinnest thread of focus that told him there would be air.  If he got his head above the water, maybe he could find a way to breathe. 

Somehow, he managed to wrench himself free of the tangled seaweed.  His every limb was heavy with exhaustion and oxygen deprivation, but with every ounce of his strength holding onto the sliver of focus in his drenched mind, he managed to force himself forward.  He kept his eyes fixed on the door; it was getting sharper.  He just had to get to it, and it would open, and there would be air and light and he would be able to breathe, just a little closer and he would break the surface.  Just a little closer-

-

Paul found himself in his room without being sure of how he got there.  He blinked as the door hissed closed behind him, honestly a little surprised he hadn’t drowned.

Clarity trickled through his mind with the slowing of his breathing.  This was a starship, not the _Titanic_.  He reached up a shaky hand and touched his cheek.  Why was his face wet, then? 

Oh God, those were tears.  He hadn’t even noticed.  Oh _God_ – between the mess hall and here, how many people did? 

Paul sighed, suddenly very aware of how heavy his body felt, of the pounding in his head and the aching in his legs.  He moved towards the bed, and he could almost feel the tug of the tide still.  Almost.  At the end of the bed, there was an indigo sweater.  A soft, light V-neck Paul had taken to wearing over his pyjamas through the sleepless nights.  He stripped off his shirt in a weary movement, letting it drop to the floor.  He then pulled the sweater over his head, stretching out into it.  The fabric was soft as a familiar touch over his bare skin.  And he stopped being able to smell the sea-spray.  How did scent manage to linger so?   Paul didn’t really care.  It was Hugh’s sweater, and it smelt like him. 

Paul found himself sinking onto the bed and curling up on Hugh’s side without thinking to do it.  Alpha Centauri’s sun cleared his mind of all but its dazzling white glare, and a moment later Paul slipped into a black, empty sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops the 'final' chapter turned into two chapters during editing. Well I hope you enjoy them both! 
> 
> If you're liking the fic, please **[support me through ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)**!
> 
> This chapter title is from _Maurice_ by E. M. Forster


	7. What Wound Did Ever Heal but by Degrees?

Paul lay on his back, eyes open.

The ceiling was as white as it ever was.  Sometimes the lights messed with his eyes, splashing yellow or blue over the monotone in blotches or stripes, like he was looking through a filter.  But now, the lights were off.  Distant stars winked through the windows, casting just enough light to make out the shape of the various things tucked neatly around Paul’s quarters. 

Paul’s quarters.  Not Hugh and Paul’s quarters.  And this bed, it was his bed, not theirs. 

Nausea stirred in the pit of Paul’s stomach.  He bit the inside of his lip and blinked at the ceiling.  It was a sort of dull grey in the gloom. 

A soft chime sounded – someone requesting permission to come in. 

Paul stopped focusing on the ceiling for a moment.  The room was filled with the soft sounds of Paul’s breathing, and further, the hum of the engines and the life support and all the other constant noises that came with running a ship, but it was generally quiet.  Probably someone wandering back to their room leant on his door for a moment and set it off. 

There was a black line along the ceiling where the panels that made up the room’s interior walls joined; a line that cut straight down the middle of the bed.  It had proved to be a very useful line, showing particular aptitude for deciding the winner of ‘you’re on my side of the bed’ debates. 

“Look, look, I’ll demonstrate,” Paul would say, a reprimanding finger almost poking Hugh in the eye.  “The line, there, see?”  He traced it in the air, then brought his hand down to the bed.  “That’s the middle.  Your leg – definitely on my side of the bed.  Keep your ice toes inside the line, Culber.” 

Following this, Hugh would normally stick both his freezing feet against whatever patch of Paul’s skin he could get at. 

Why did he ever put a barrier between them?  He should have pulled Hugh on top of him and slept under his weight, or should have tangled their legs together and dozed off with his head against his chest, should have made it impossible to tell where exactly Hugh ended and Paul began.  But no, he pointed to a black line on the ceiling and cut their bed in two. 

Paul found himself wishing the line would drop from the ceiling like a guillotine.  That the panels around the room would start to fold in on themselves, releasing Paul and his room into the unforgiving vacuum outside. 

The chime sounded again.  It was one in the morning, why the hell would there be someone outside Paul’s room?  His brow furrowed, and he turned his head towards the door. 

And again, the chime sounded. 

Paul sat up, staring at the door like he could bore holes through it and see who was on the other side.  After a beat, he spoke. 

“Come.” 

Thus, the door slid back, and there, in the archway, were Sylvia Tilly and Michael Burnham.  Sylvia’s hair had been tamed back into a plait, though there were a few escaped strands around her ears and a decent amount of frizz framed her head.  She had a cream cardigan pulled over her regulation pyjamas, and grey fluffy slippers that were definitely not regulation protected her feet from the cold metal floor.  Michael was in the same dark green jumper she’d been wearing when Paul ran into her a few nights previous.  Sylvia was smiling her ‘please don’t hate me I’m just trying to do the right thing’ smile, but Michael’s face was basically neutral.  Paul’s gaze flicked between them. 

“What are you doing here?” Paul asked. 

“We’re going to the mess hall to get some tea,” Michael said, as if this was the most normal thing in the universe.  “Would you like to join us?” 

No one spoke for a moment. 

“We thought you might be having trouble sleeping?” Sylvia stammered, like she wasn’t sure what it was she was going to say until she’d said it. 

“So you decided to come knocking on my door at one in the morning?” 

“The door noise is pretty quiet,” Tilly said, her own voice barely audible. 

“What if you woke me up?” 

“Did we?”  Michael arched her eyebrows, clearly already knowing the answer.  Paul puffed a breath out through his nose and looked away. 

“Well, we’re going to the mess hall and we’re going to talk about things,” she continued, almost smiling.  “Are you coming?” 

-

Paul ran his finger around the edge of his mug.  Steam billowed between the three as they sat around a small table.  Michael had camomile, Sylvia had hot chocolate, and Paul had white breakfast tea.  They were quiet, but not uncomfortable. 

“I thought you usually take it black,” Sylvia said, sipping her drink. 

Paul gave a small smile, but melancholy still lined his face.  “Hugh always had his with milk.  It’s grown on me recently.” 

“Right.” 

Quiet fell again.  Then Michael spoke: 

“My mother,” she began as Paul and Sylvia looked up to her, “always had her oatmeal plain.  I couldn’t stand mine unless it was drenched in syrup.”

“I can’t imagine you eating syrup,” Sylvia said, a slight chuckle in her voice. 

“Oh I did.  Sometimes it was more syrup than oatmeal.”  She smiled a little.  “After she was killed, I wouldn’t touch oatmeal unless it was plain.  I still won’t.  Can’t even put fruit in it.” 

Paul’s eyes flicked up from his mug.  “Not even blueberries?” he asked, eyebrows raised, the smallest trace of a smile flickering over his features. 

“Not even blueberries,” replied Michael, offering Paul a miniscule smile in return. 

“I know it’s not really comparable,” began Sylvia, laughing a little in an attempt to counteract the possible blunder she was about to make, “but I had a golden retriever.  I loved that dog so much.  After she died, I wore her tags on a chain around my neck for months.  But then my sister told this drummer I was super into to ask me to show him my dog tags.”

“Oh God.”  Michael had said it before she could stop herself.  “Did you?” 

“Yep.  When Eliza told him about them he was so impressed, thought I was super badass, right up until I was showing him a metal heart that said ‘Mango’.” 

“Wait, how old were you at the time?” 

Syliva sighed, resigning herself to the inevitable.  “Twenty.” 

Michael’s eyes widened a fraction, and then she started staring determinedly at the opposite wall. 

“You were right, that was absolutely not comparable,” Paul said, fixing Sylvia with the expression he usually reserved for when someone asked an exceptionally stupid question.  “But it was fucking hilarious.” 

At that, Michael’s barely contained laughter came snorting out through her nose.  “Sorry,” she said quickly, placing her hand over her mouth. 

“No it’s alright,” Sylvia said, a smile breaking out over her face.  “I just… I really loved that dog.” 

Michael started laughing properly as Sylvia grinned at her, chuckling over her steaming mug.  Paul sipped his tea.  The girls’ laughter subsided quickly, the weight of circumstance settling over them again. 

“I guess I’ve been lucky,” Sylvia began again, cutting through the quiet.  “I never lost anyone before the war.” 

“Not even your grandparents?” asked Michael. 

“I never had grandparents to lose, really.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sylvia shrugged.  “You don’t miss what you never had.  My mother’s parents were dead before I was born, and my dad was estranged from his family.  I was twelve when his father died, and sixteen when his mother died.  But I never knew them in the first place.  They weren’t grandma and grandpa, you know?  So it was like hearing about a death on the news.” 

“Yeah,” Michael sighed as she picked up her mug again. 

“So I never knew what it felt like before, and it…”  She let out a breath, brow furrowed as she searched for a weighty enough word.  There wasn’t one to be found, so she resigned herself to the inadequacy of language: “It really sucks, doesn’t it?” 

“You could say that,” scoffed Paul, gloomily gazing at nothing in particular. 

“Because you weren’t the only one who lost Hugh, you know.” 

Paul’s head flicked up, his eyes narrowing at the affront.  “I know that, Tilly,” he said sharply. 

“Oh no, no I- uh,” Sylvia stammered.  “I didn’t mean in a reprimanding way.  I mean like… we get it.  He was a good man, and a good friend.  And I know, I know: we don’t miss him like you.  But we miss him with you.” 

Paul’s expression softened.  “Thank you, Sylvia,” he said, a gentle smile just visible on his lips. 

“Oh, I wanted to tell you.  Hugh actually gave me something, before… Well, um,” – Sylvia dug into the pockets of her cardigan, and pulled out a slim box – “it’s best if I show you.”  She popped open the box.  Inside were two small earpieces with squashy foam buds.  “Hold on, let me just…” She pulled the buds off and replaced them with silicone buds from the box.  “They’re… they’re for my ears so I can’t have you… putting them… sorry.  Anyway.”  She stopped mumbling and held out the earpieces to Paul. 

Paul took them a touch hesitantly, then, at a nod from Sylvia, put them in. 

“Okay?” Sylvia asked. 

“What am I supposed to be hearing?”

“Hold on, I haven’t turned them on yet.”  She pressed something on the inside of the box. 

“Huh,” said Paul. 

“The effect is more obvious in crowded spaces,” Sylvia explained quickly, fiddling with the box in her hand.  “It sort of mutes the fuzz of background noise, keeps things sharp.” 

Paul nodded, taking them out again.  “Right.” 

Sylvia took them off him and popped them back in their box.  “They’re to help prevent sensory overload.  See, I got talking with Hugh one day – I actually ran out of lunch.  I was having a bad brain day and it was… too much.  But I knew the sickbay would be quiet.  I don’t really know why I chose the sickbay; I could have gone to our room.  But anyway, I got there, and Hugh was just looking over some scans or something, and we got to talking.  He asked me what was wrong.  I don’t know whether it was the doctor part of him or if he was just being nice, but he asked.  So I told him about the overstimulation and he just sat and listened to me stammering.  Anyway, the next evening he found me at dinner and gave me these.  He designed them and made them in a day.  Just because I said background noise was overwhelming.  He was so kind, always.” 

“He never told me about that,” Paul said.  He attempted to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“It was while you were in your coma,” replied Sylvia, gazing down into her hot chocolate.  “He had a lot of time on his hands because he’d been taken off your case.” 

“I bet he would have found time to do it anyway,” Paul said quietly. 

Sylvia looked up at him.  “Yeah.  He would have, wouldn’t he?”

“He was always looking out for everyone,” Michael sighed, raising her mug to her lips. 

“You know, I can’t believe I was so lucky to have him in my life.”  Michael and Sylvia both fixed their attention on Paul, but he was staring determinedly at the empty space between them on the table.  His eyes were glistening.  “And he loved me.  Lord knows why, but he loved me.  How amazing is that?”  He moistened his lips, still fixated on the table. 

The quiet that fell over the room was like a sort of trance, suspending the three of them in a moment apart from time.  Both Michael and Sylvia were still focused on Paul.  He’d never spoken like this before, even when he was making those first jumps.  He’d been open then, yes, he’d been strangely honest and freely emotional, but not about his pain.  This was new. 

“I lost him three times.  I lost him when I saw him die, and then again when I woke up from the coma, and then again when you found me in my room.  And every time it felt like that was it, he was gone forever.  Forever.  You know I don’t dream anymore?  I can’t find him again.  And if I never find him again, I’ll never lose him again.  But let me tell you, I would lose him a million different times in a million different ways if it meant I could have him for just one more day.”

Michael reached out a hand and laid it gently on Paul’s arm.  He was still staring determinedly at the table.  “But last time you lost him,” she said, her voice as soft as her tentative touch on his wrist, “we almost lost you.” 

“That wouldn’t have been so bad,” Paul half-whispered, his breath shaking. 

“Paul…”

“Sorry,” Paul sighed.  He closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his lips together.  He blew out a breath as he looked up again, and sort of attempted a smile.  Michael was still gazing at Paul with apprehension, and Sylvia looked downright devastated, but still, Paul smiled.  “I just keep thinking of that song – it’s a really old song.  It’s, uh…  ‘You took the best, so why not take the rest?  Baby, take all of me.’”  His singing was shaky and his voice was cracking, but he smiled.  Michael slid her hand down to take a hold of Paul’s.  She opened her mouth, but closed it again; her mind was totally void of response. 

“Because we love you, Paul.” 

Paul looked up to Sylvia, his eyes wide and wet, the smile melted away.  She bit her lip, fear etched on her face, _oh God, was that the wrong thing to say?_ The moment could have been an eternity, a stunned silence absorbing everything in the multiverse down to the rings left by their mugs. 

Then Paul took a breath like he’d just been dragged up from drowning, and dissolved into those tears he’d been so adamant not to shed. 

After another, stunned moment of stillness, Sylvia shuffled her chair around the table and placed an arm around Paul.  He turned into her, leaning his head against her shoulder, one hand clutching vaguely at where her cardigan hung by her waist.  Sylvia looked over to Michael, who was still holding Paul’s other hand.  She gave an apologetic grimace, but Michael shook her head.

 _This is okay_ , she mouthed.  Sylvia nodded, and gently squeezed Paul’s shoulder. 

He pulled away from her, tears still coursing down his cheeks as he pulled his hand from Michael’s grasp and vainly attempted to wipe them away.  “God, I’m so sorry,” he managed, his voice cracking. 

“Don’t be,” Sylvia said quickly, her hand slipping round to Paul’s back. 

“I am,” Paul choked.  He tried to take a few regular breaths, but they were shaky and too deep and not exactly regular at all, but he managed to regain a bit more of a handle on himself.  “I am.  I’m sorry – for what I did.  What I tried to do.”

“It’s okay, Paul,” Michael said, her hand still stretched across the table.

“It’s not,” Paul said, and the tears were welling up in his voice again.  He swallowed against them. 

“There were extenuating circumstances.  You had more reason than most to believe your actions would lead to being with him again.”

Paul said nothing, again wiping a hand across his face. 

“And anyway,” Michael continued, her voice gentler still, “you thought you would be spending the rest of your life with him.  It’s understandable that you’d want to make that true.” 

Paul just bit his lip. 

“At least Hugh was right,” Sylvia said, smiling as if to convince Paul to do the same.  Both Michael and Paul looked to Sylvia with the same expression of vague confusion.  Sylvia clarified: “I assume you both thought you’d spend the rest of your lives together.  Hugh was right: he did.  I know it’s horrible and all, but I bet he’s glad he never had to live without you.” 

And Paul actually smiled.  “You have a really nice way of thinking about things, Tilly,” he said. 

Sylvia flashed her teeth in a slightly wonky grin, and took another sip of her hot chocolate.  Paul’s smile faded again, and he went back to staring at his tea. 

“There was something a little more practical we wanted to talk to you about, Paul,” Michael began, her voice still soft. 

“Oh?” 

Sylvia nodded.  “You’re going to eat with us from now on.”

Sighing slightly, Michael gave Sylvia a glare she didn’t see.  “We think it would be best if one or both of us were there with you at mealtimes,” she corrected. 

Paul swallowed.  “You heard about lunch then.” 

Michael licked her lips and Sylvia shifted a little in her seat.  “Yes.  We heard,” Michael said. 

“It’s never happened before,” Paul said.  His eyes were fixed on the table – he really didn’t need to know the expressions on his friends’ faces.  “Well, there was one time when I was in high school, but not since then.”

Sylvia’s eyes widened.  “You’ve only had two panic attacks in your life?” she asked, incredulous.   

“Syliva,” Michael hissed. 

But Paul laughed a little.  “I guess that’s not a bad record, huh?” 

“Uh, yeah.  Not bad.” 

“Yours are more often meltdowns though, aren’t they?” Paul asked, looking up to Tilly. 

“I actually get both,” Sylvia sighed.  “Let me tell you, they are not fun to have at the same time.” 

“I don’t imagine they would be.” 

“They’re not.”

“Anyway,” said Michael, pushing back to her original point, “we get that there’s an issue with eating, and with the mess hall generally, so in an effort to prevent a repeat of today’s…”  She paused, fishing around for the right word. 

“Disaster,” supplied Paul, picking up his tea. 

“I was going to say something like ‘incident’.” 

“Same difference,” he shrugged. 

“Well, we want to join you for meals, anyway.” 

Paul raised his eyebrows.  “This is also to make sure I do actually eat food at all, right?”

Michael took a sip of her tea before replying.  “Yes.  Yes it is.” 

“Can you blame us?” said Tilly, half-smiling

“No,” Paul said simply.  “You’re… you’re right.”

Michael and Sylvia exchanged glance; they’d been expecting Paul to resent the idea.  And yet, as he sat there with exhaustion dripping from every fibre of his being, his eyes red, his hands wrapped around his mug like it was all he had in the universe to hold on to, it became quite clear that Paul couldn’t possibly push back.  He didn’t have the energy.  And if he tried to claim he was coping, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. 

“So what’s going to happen?” he asked, glancing between Syliva and Michael. 

“Well,” Michael began, “we were thinking we’d meet outside the mess at eight for breakfast.” 

“Eight?” Paul asked, his eyes widening. 

“Yes, eight,” Michael repeated, her expression unrelenting.  “A regular sleep schedule is a core part of improving mental and physical health.” 

Paul puffed out a breath through his nose.  “You’re not the first person to tell me that.” 

“I didn’t suppose I would have been.” 

Paul blinked down at his tea, and Michael continued.  “Then we go about our business, each of us.  When one of us breaks for lunch, we’ll contact the other two to find out what’s happening and where you are.” 

“I’ll probably be in my quarters,” Paul said. 

“True, but you might decide to go swimming or something.” 

“I haven’t really been feeling like swimming.” 

Michael shrugged.  “Well, Paul, regular exercise is a core-”

“Yeah I know, I know,” Paul said, rolling his eyes a little.  Michael smirked.  “So one of you will collect me and drag me to the mess, right?” 

“Or both of us,” Sylvia said.  “If we both get lunch at the same time.  But essentially, yes.” 

“If it’s convenient,” Michael added.  “But if it’s not, you’ll have to come with whoever breaks second if we break at different times.  So if you’re busy when I break, you’ll have to go with Sylvia.” 

“I did grasp the concept,” Paul said, staring blankly at Michael. 

“Good.  And then in the evenings we’ll work out a time each day after work, and we’ll all eat together then.  Alright?” 

Paul looked out into the empty space between Michael and Sylvia.  He could almost see Hugh leaning against the wall on the other side of the room.  If he could hear this, wherever he was, Hugh would smile, and nod, and agree with the girls.

Paul swallowed stiffly, and nodded.

Sylvia had started speaking again, something to do with their days off, but Paul had stopped listening.  Hugh’s smile was gentle.  It was not sad, exactly, but it wasn’t like when they were really together.  It was just a soft Hugh smile, the sort of smile he’d give Paul when he knew all they both wanted was to wrap themselves up in each other but couldn’t.  The smile he’d given Paul before he left the network to go save the universe.  One of many, many, many smiles that meant _I love you_. 

“And then you won’t have to worry about it,” Sylvia finished.  “Okay?” 

He could almost hear Hugh’s voice.

_It’s alright, Paul.  Get better._

Paul took a deep breath.  “Okay.” 

* * *

 

The door opened, and Michael once again stepped inside Paul’s room.  Paul was, as usual, sat on the bed with Hugh’s old PADD.  Saru had been kind enough to excuse Paul from returning it for the time-being, and so Paul spent most of his time off reading the books and watching the shows Hugh had saved. 

It was a calm evening.  It had been a calm day.  They had passed a pre-warp class M planet and made some observations of the life on the surface from orbit before continuing on their way.  Everyone on the _Discovery_ seemed fairly content with the way life was running.  And one day soon, Michael hoped, Paul would be so too. 

“Hey,” she said softly, wandering into the room.  Paul took a moment longer to stare at whatever it was he’d been looking at before he raised his eyes to Michael. 

“Hi.” 

“You ready?” 

Paul gave a heavy sigh, running his thumb over the keys on the PADD before putting it down.  “When would I not be?” 

Michael shrugged.  “You could have been doing something.”

Paul raised his eyebrows.  “When am I ever doing anything?”

“Well,” Michael said, perching on the edge of the bed, “maybe you could find something to do.” 

“Like what?  I can’t work,” Paul said, looking at Michael with a melancholy in his eyes that had become far too familiar.  “I asked Saru, he says I’m still not well enough to re-join the crew.  He can’t clear me.  He’s not sure yet whether I’ll ever be cleared again – I still might get kicked off next time we end up at a Starbase.  I understand – he’s right.  I don’t sleep.  I don’t eat much.  So… what?  I walk around halls where he used to walk.  I look at pictures.  You know sometimes, I’ll get back to our quarters, and I’ll think ‘oh, Hugh’s not back yet’.  And it… it takes me a few seconds before I realise: Hugh’s not coming back.  When we were in the mess the other day I heard someone coming toward our table, and I turned round.  Like I was gonna see him.”

Paul shook his head, sweeping his gaze around the room that Michael suddenly realised felt shockingly empty. 

“Did you know we were gonna leave?”  Paul turned his eyes back to Michael.  She shook her head.  “Before that last jump, into the Terran universe – we’d made plans.  I was finally gonna have the Starfleet officials check out my side-effects and Hugh was gonna come with me.  We were gonna leave Starfleet together.  We’d get a house, or an apartment, somewhere with real grass, and a tide.  We’d go to the beach and he’d tell me off for not wearing enough sunblock.  And we’d swim.  It would be somewhere where we could drive miles into the countryside, or the mountains, and look at the view.  Did you know Hugh loved driving?  He did.  And we’d visit our parents.  And Hugh would get a job in a clinic, and I’d write stupid essays about mushrooms.  And we’d go to the opera.  And we’d live until we were a hundred and eighty and totally sick of each other.  Except how could we ever get sick of each other?  I mean… he’s in my system.  I don’t know how not to love him.” 

“You don’t have to stop loving him,” Michael said quietly. 

“I know,” Paul sighed.  “But I do have to stop expecting him to come back to me.” 

Michael moistened her lips, her eyes gazing, unfocused, towards to floor.  “You know,” she said, and there was a new lightness to her voice, “I do think that’s something you ought to consider more.” 

Paul scoffed.  “That he’ll come back?” 

“No,” Michael said, looking back up to meet Paul’s eye.  “That you don’t have to stop focusing on the things you love.  It’s okay to think about Hugh.  And it’s okay to think about your work.” 

“Saru said-”

“I’m not saying you re-join the crew, not yet,” Michael assured him.  “But just because you’re not working in the same way doesn’t mean you can’t work at all.  You need a project.  Something that makes you do what you love.  It could be like a tribute, if you wanted.” 

Paul looked sceptical, but Michael was sure the expression was less severe than it had been a moment ago.  “Like what?” 

Michael paused for a moment, her gaze absently travelling back to the floor.  “I don’t know.” 

Paul shook his head and looked away. 

“But that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything,” Michael said, and her voice was firm as it had ever been. 

“I know, I know,” Paul replied.  “It’s an interesting idea, Burnham.  I’ll think about it.” 

Michael smiled.  “Good.” 

Paul turned back to face her, and upon meeting her expression attempted a small, brief smile in return.  “Thank you,” he said.

“Anytime,” she replied.  “Now,” she continued, glancing to the door before returning her gaze to Paul, “how about we get some food?” 

Paul grimaced. 

“It doesn’t have to be a lot,” Michael said.  “Just something.  Anything you want, so long as it’s food.” 

Paul sighed.  “Alright,” he said at length. 

“Great,” Michael smiled.  “I promised Tilly we’d meet her in the mess hall.” 

“Oh God, really?” 

“You like Tilly,” Michael said, a little surprised at Paul’s response. 

“Yeah, I do, but she’s so…”  Paul puffed out a breath, trying to find the right words.  “Hands on.”

Michael laughed a little.  “She’s going to help you get better whether you like it or not.”

“As are you, apparently.” 

“Yeah, I am.” 

“Well, no use delaying the inevitable,” Paul said, getting to his feet. 

Michael followed.  “Tilly will probably catch you up on what’s going on in the engine room,” she said as they started heading towards the door.

“Yeah,” he said, and he was actually smiling. 

Michael noted this, taking courage in the fact as the door closed behind them.

* * *

 

Around Paul as he sat cross-legged on the bed were a plethora of holoscreens, each displaying reams of data – diagrams, charts, essays – and as he sat, he typed into the one in front of him.  His and Hugh’s PADD sat side-by-side on his right.  On his, a photo of he and Strall in their lab.  On Hugh’s, a photo Paul had taken quite by surprise as he interrupted Hugh’s nightly medical journal reading session with a kiss. 

Paul had been sitting like this pretty much all day, pausing only to have lunch with Sylvia.  He was comfortably clad in an old pair of jeans and one of Hugh’s sweaters, which Sylvia noted made a nice change from the sweats he’d been wearing since he woke up from the network.

His glance passed over the photos as Paul stopped typing to examine some of the data, and then he resumed scrolling through an essay on his left. 

Through the quiet, the door beeped. 

“Open,” Paul said, eyes still glued to the screen. 

“Hey, Paul,” Michael said, making her way into the room.  “I brought you some…”  She faltered.  “What’s all this?” 

Michael could have sworn Paul smiled as he scrolled further down the essay and highlighted a line.  But as soon as it appeared, it was gone.  “A project.” 

Michael moved to the bed, flicking her eyes over the screens.  On one reposed the images of Paul’s scans compared to the tardigrade’s.  On another, an exploded diagram of the mycelium core of the _Charon_.  The various calculations and notations on the others Michael recognised as linked to the network, some of it dating from before the war.  Michael’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re not trying to work out how Hugh remained in the network, are you?” she asked, concern leaking into the back of her mind. 

Paul looked up at her, and his gaze was surprisingly soft.  “No,” he said.  And then, perking up a bit, “Is that for me?” 

Michael looked down at the mug of tea – white breakfast tea – in her hand.  “Oh.  Yes.”  She offered it out to him, and Paul took it, having a sip before putting it down on the nightstand.

“And don’t worry,” he continued, “this is all above board.  Saru cleared me to have copies of the data.”

“Good.”  That concern had occurred to Michael, she had to admit.

Paul raised his eyebrows at her.  “Anyway, you didn’t just come to bring me tea I assume?”

“Sylvia and I were thinking we’d eat at six tonight,” Michael replied. 

Paul nodded, and turned back to his screens.  “That sounds fine.” 

Michael paused a moment longer, watching as Paul started typing again.  His own screen seemed to display an essay of some sort – there were no diagrams or lists of calculations there. 

“And maybe you can tell us what this project is,” Michael said, without really meaning to.

Paul smirked slightly, and stopped typing.  He turned to look at Michael properly.  “It’s a complete account of my experience with the mycelial network, from the beginning of my research with Strall to now.” 

Michael just blinked, speechless. 

“I’m going to make sure everyone knows it was Strall who discovered that the spores needed an organic interface, and without that information we never would have won the war.  I’m going to make sure everyone knows it was Hugh who showed me that the network was dying.  Hugh saved the multiverse.  People should know that.” 

Michael nodded.  “They should.” 

“Starfleet probably won’t want me publishing information about the multiverse, I know,” Paul said, but there was a note in his voice that suggested that perhaps he didn’t really care.  “But published or not, at least I’ll have written it.” 

“I think Hugh’s very proud of you right now.” 

Paul shrugged.  “I think Hugh’s annoyed at me.” 

“Why?” 

“I’ve stretched out all his sweaters.” 

Relief was pooling in Michael’s chest at the sight of Paul smiling to himself, surrounded again in his work, the photos at his side apparently spurring him onwards as opposed to holing him back. 

“Oh, and the bridge crew are having a zero-gravity ping pong tournament in the rec room after dinner if you want to come laugh at us?” 

Paul looked up again at Michael, smirking still.  “Absolutely.”

And so, with a new lightness in her step, Michael left Paul to it. 

As the door closed once more, Paul went back to his data.  His eyes lingered again on the photo displayed on Hugh’s PADD.  Hugh’s eyes were bright, a grin just blooming across his face as Paul kissed his cheek. 

Paul’s heart still felt heavy.  The room still felt bare.  But soon, the whole universe would know that Hugh Culber was their saving grace. 

“Think you can come back and save me again, love?” Paul said quietly, gazing at Hugh’s beautiful smile.  “I mean, I know this is for you, but it really is a lot of work.”  Paul’s mind turned to the many nights Hugh would slip his PADD from his hands, or distract him with kisses, and work became so dreadfully unimportant.  The responding quiet fluttered around the room.  Paul turned back to the screens.  This, he knew, was how he was saving himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for reading!! If you've left a comment or are planning on leaving one, I am eternally grateful. I will also be eternally grateful if, should you have liked my writing, you **[support me through ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/NoahAndTheRain)**!! Every little really does help.
> 
> The song Paul references in this chapter is _All Of Me_ which you can listen to Billie Holiday singing [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4P0hG3sD0-E).
> 
> You can find me, Noah, [on tumblr](https://godblessintheflesh.tumblr.com) if you want to see a mess of fandom, aesthetics, and gay crying. Feel free to shoot me a message or something and we can cry about star trek together. 
> 
> Being the Shakespeare nerd I am I had to finish it with another Shakespeare line of course. This final chapter title is from _Othello_
> 
> Thanks again lovelies <3 Have a great day!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Learning to Live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14163423) by [awaytobeunshaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awaytobeunshaken/pseuds/awaytobeunshaken)




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